


Headlights and Halos

by sunshinewinchesters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Dean Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Beta Sam Winchester, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Castiel, Knotting, M/M, Marking, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mechanic Dean, Mpreg in Epilogue, Omega Castiel, Omega Verse, Possessive Dean, Protective Dean Winchester, Scent Marking, Sick Castiel, Sick Dean Winchester, Sickfic, Size Difference, Slow Burn, Teacher Castiel, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Top Dean, True Mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-04-22 19:55:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 116,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4848368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinewinchesters/pseuds/sunshinewinchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unpresented 26-year-old Castiel's life turns a complete one-eighty the night he gets hit by a certain green-eyed alpha's car.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just Around the Corner

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by and written for my lovely Astrophilla <3

 

The people on those breakfast commercials were wrong.

Not just wrong because their cereal really isn’t better than donuts and bacon for breakfast, but wrong because having a good start to the day neither guarantees nor ensures the rest of your day will follow suit. Not that Castiel Novak ever bought into their marketing lies, of course; he just hadn’t expected that things could do a complete one-eighty so quickly. The day had actually started out pretty well. Castiel had woken up to an empty bed, his partner Balthazar no doubt in town doing whatever he did, which meant Castiel could stay in bed and just browse the internet on his laptop for job openings. What really made the morning great was opening his email to find a reply from the chief administrator of the a school district nearby in Maine, to which he’d submitted his application to. They were interested in interviewing him for a potential position as a World Religions teacher, and Castiel had eagerly replied his assent to meet them at the time and location listed, a grin on his face.

In short, the morning had been uncharacteristically pleasant. As soon as Balthazar got home though, everything took a drastic turn for the worse.

Now Castiel is eyeing his year-long partner as he shuts the front door of the apartment they share behind him and kicks off his boots, not even bothering to acknowledge Cas’ greeting. Castiel squints at him as he makes his way into their tiny kitchen and grabs himself a beer out of the fridge. “Balthazar?” Castiel prompts, and the taller man looks up. His hair is disheveled and his lips are noticeably swollen, not to mention several shades too-bright red, smears of the color staining his skin where he couldn’t rub it out. The worst, most overpowering thing is the stench of beta all over him, smelling all kinds of wrong and making Castiel want to gag. He inhales a sharp breath, blinking rapidly as his mind races to catch up. “Were—were you _with_ someone else?” Castiel breathes, his voice breaking. Everything is happening too fast, all this information too much to process. Balthazar wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and strides over to Cas, whole body tense.  
“Yeah, I was with someone else, and not for the first time either, because you know what, Cas?” Balthazar demands, his voice hard and cold. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t deal with _you_ , you and your fucking aversion to sex! I’ve handled it like a saint, but I’m at the end of my rope. This—us—it’s not going to work any longer. I need to be with someone who understands and can meet my needs, and you are just not that person.” Balthazar takes a long pull from his beer and puts it down onto the counter with a weary sigh, gauging Cas’ reaction with emotionless eyes.

“Balthazar, you know I haven’t presented yet—” Castiel tries to defend himself, but his partner’s frustrated growl interrupts him.  
“That’s the bloody problem! You’re twenty-six and still haven’t presented! What am I expected to do?” Balthazar takes a few calming breaths as Castiel recoils from his words, cold seeping through his veins as Balthazar’s words sink in, hitting home. Castiel has always been insecure his unpresented status, and he thought that Balthazar understood that. “She was all over me, so needy and wanting, just ready to go, and I couldn’t resist. You aren’t right for me, Cas. I’m sorry, but you aren’t.” He takes another drink of his beer, frowning down at his hand clenched around the bottle.  
“I suppose I’ll get my things and leave then,” Castiel replies calmly, hoping against hope that his voice doesn’t betray the tidal wave of hurt he feels. Balthazar just nods jerkily once and Castiel heads into their room, pulling down his suitcase from its top shelf in the closet, and begins to yank all of his clothing off the hangers to throw them in. He tears through the room, emptying all his belongings into the suitcase, and shuts it tight when he finishes, some twenty minutes later. Blood is roaring in his ears and his mind is reeling. In packing, he realizes how very little he actually owns; just his clothes, his laptop, a few toiletries and books, and that’s about it. Nearly everything here is Balthazar’s—even his phone, a gift from his now ex-partner for his birthday. He takes one look at it and feels a curl of revulsion in his gut. He doesn’t want to take it with him—he wants nothing of Balthazar's, period. He can get a new one.

When Castiel walks back into the living room, Balthazar is sprawled on the couch, a flask in hand, and ignores Castiel as he flings his spare set of keys back onto the counter. He won’t be needing those ever again. “Goodbye, Balthazar,” Castiel tells him briskly, then turns on his heel and leaves the apartment behind him, not caring that he violently slammed the door. He can’t quite believe that Balthazar actually dumped him because of his damn status, leaving him homeless and feeling worthless and unwanted. Maybe because he is, because Balthazar is right; who the hell would ever want an unpresented partner? He could satisfy no one. Castiel huffs at the thought. He does not live to satisfy anyone. Adjusting the handle of the suitcase in his hand, he picks a direction, and starts walking. He couldn’t care less where he’s headed. Right now he just needs time to _think_.

Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t feel any amount of real loss. Sure, Balthazar had been his first real relationship, the first person he’d ever slept with even, but he feels not even in their best moments had either of them really meant something to the other. Castiel was never properly satisfied by the relationship; a genuine, emotional connection had never developed between them, and with hindsight, he considers as he stomps his way down the street, Castiel was never attached to Balthazar, nor even close to him. Unlike Castiel, he was into relationships for the physical aspects, and Castiel felt little desire for emotionless sex. The few times they had actually slept together were uncomfortable at best, for Castiel at least. Balthazar had never been able to knot Cas, not with his body’s complete lack of cooperation, and for that, Castiel is endlessly thankful. It makes him sick to think of mating with someone like that, someone who sees Castiel as a sex object, the way Balthazar clearly had.

Castiel sighs, plowing a hand through his hair. Their relationship had been flawed from the foundations up, but he had been too comfortable to do anything about it. He’d been hoping Balthazar might be what he was looking for, the alpha who would protect him and put him first, who would truly care for him, even the liberal partner who would stick by him in the event that he presented as an alpha too, but he had been painfully wrong. He’s surprised he didn’t see it earlier really, Balthazar’s mounting frustration with his inability to get Castiel in bed more than once in a blue moon, and when he did, Cas’ lack of enthusiasm and arousal. In all honesty, Castiel hardly sees the appeal of sex. It hadn’t felt good, not even when Balthazar tried to go slow, which was coincidentally only the once. They’re too different in the worst of ways, and Castiel decides that it’s probably best this happened now instead of later. He felt neither was happy with the relationship and they were both making each other miserable in one way or another.

Thunder cracks overhead, so loud that Castiel is dragged from his somber thoughts with a start, and then, as if his life could get any worse, rain starts to fall in heavy, drenching sheets. Within minutes Castiel is soaked to the bone, shivering in his sweater and jeans. The rain clouds overhead are so thick that not even a sliver of moonlight can penetrate them, leaving streetlights as the only thing between Castiel and complete blindness. His shoes squelch with each step he takes, and he shivers as the wind whips the raindrops sideways, chilling his damp skin. He folds his arms across his chest and grumbles under his breath, dutifully pulling his suitcase along, thanking his past self for buying one with wheels. He really needs to get out of the rain and cold before he adds hypothermia to his list of ‘worst things to happen to one man in one day’, but he’s at an absolute loss for anywhere to go. He power walks in the direction of most light pollution, knowing that’s where he’s most likely to find a motel room. He’ll have to get one for the night, if not longer. How late is it anyway? Castiel doesn’t know where his watch is to check. Not that it matters; the only reason he’s in a rush to get out of the pouring rain is because he really isn’t enjoying the sensation of his clothes being plastered to his icy skin. He doesn’t even have a car, he considers glumly. He’s already at an all time low, and the whole thing’s made even worse when he turns his thoughts to how he’s feeling instead of the chafe of wet denim on the insides of his thighs.

He’s not going to even try and ignore the most overwhelming of his feelings right now: he feels completely worthless. Something must be wrong with him, deeply wrong, to not have presented yet, to be denied the chance to enjoy sex when it seems the entire world adores it. It feels like he’s good for nothing, is too useless to attract a mate or even have his body function properly. Castiel coughs into his arm, blinking raindrops out of his eyes, and glares at the vacant road ahead, wondering if he’s even headed in the right direction. Does it even matter? He can’t stay in a motel forever, so where is he supposed to go, what is he supposed to do with himself? He can’t go back to his family, wouldn’t even want to after being kicked to the curb with their own special brand of Christian kindness for refusing to be married off to a respectable, handsome beta, in hopes that mating would kickstart his errant hormones. His mother didn’t take too kindly to being rather bluntly reminded that he wasn’t an nineteenth-century maiden from a bodice ripper novel.

The rain is spitting into his face and he ducks his head to avoid it obscuring his vision as he approaches a corner, a growing feeling in his stomach that he’s actually heading further away from town instead of towards some place to sleep for the night. Before frustration can give way into despair, twin bright and blinding beams of light swing around the bend, paired with the loud rumble of an engine, and Castiel doesn’t even have time to move from where he’s made it to the middle of the road. He scrambles to get out the way, but the vehicle whips around the corner too fast and before he can blink it’s colliding with his body so hard that he’s thrown backward, weightless for a brief, yet drawn out moment. There’s a sickening crunch as he violently makes impact with the road, and then he’s plunged into darkness.

***

“Sonovabitch! Holy shit! Please wake up, come on, stay with me!” The deep, throaty voice brimming with panic is the first thing Castiel registers. Then comes the pain. His head is pounding erratically in time with his racing heartbeat, his ribs feels like there’s an elephant perched atop them, and one knee is burning white hot. The sudden onslaught of feeling is so overwhelming his body revolts against him and his stomach spasms, ejecting whatever he’d last eaten all over the wet pavement. His eyes roll blindly as he tries to get them to focus on the source of that voice, which is somehow beautiful and comforting even through his fear and discomfort. His head is clouded and foggy with pain, jolts of agony from trying to move the only thing piercing through the veil. His vision is blurry but his other senses are pulling into focus as the seconds tick by. What hits him even harder than how terrible he feels is the scent of whoever’s slipping their hand under his neck and cradling the back of his head. It’s the most glorious thing he’s ever smelled; heady and cloying, like pine, leather, sunshine, and gardenia. It’s distinctly, wonderfully alpha, the scent only slightly tarnished by fear. He’s never smelled anything even half as wonderful and that’s why he’s becoming more and more sure that he’s actually dead.

No human on earth could ever smell that good, so the only logical conclusion Castiel can draw from the scent alone is that he’s in heaven, despite what his mother predicted, and there’s an angel bent over him, begging for his coherence. The poor angel shouldn’t be so concerned; they’re in heaven, after all. Everything is okay. The pain is deafening, but in his deliria he’s sure the angel can make it go away. His vision pulls into focus like a camera lense and suddenly he’s staring at a face that matches the way the angel smells. Wide, forest green eyes are trained on his, pupils dilated, and he almost forgets to breathe when he takes them in. There are freckles dappled over his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, and he has a strong jawline and full, red lips. Even in the limited light Castiel can tell this angel is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He inhales deeply, drinking in the heavenly scent despite the sharp pains the motion causes, and cries out like a child when the angel moves his hands away. The alpha kneels beside him, slipping one arm under the crook of his knees and wrapping the other around his shoulders.

“Castiel? C’mon buddy, just keep your eyes on me,” the angel begs, and Castiel smiles, inexplicable warmth blooming in his pain-riddled chest. The angel knows his name! He’s keeping their eyes locked as he gathers Castiel to his chest and carefully stands, and all Castiel can do is grit his teeth and hope he doesn’t throw up again. As soon as gravity forces his head to loll to the side, he cries out in pain, lights going off behind his eyes and setting the world spinning on its axis. Pain flares in his knee from where it’s bent and it sends agony shooting up his leg, his head feeling like it may explode. Breathing hurts and Castiel can only wonder why there’s so much pain if he’s already dead. Isn’t it supposed to be a lot more pleasant than this? Everything is tilting at crazy angles and he wants to close his eyes, but losing sight of the alpha angel isn’t worth it.

Maybe his mother was right, and he wound up in Hell after all.

“There you go, you’re okay, just stay with me, Cas,” the alpha says, lying Castiel gently down on cool leather and arranging his limbs so they’re comfortable and not pinned awkwardly beneath him. The angel called him Cas. No one else has called him Cas but Balthazar, and he’s finding he much prefers the way the nickname sounds coming from the angel’s lips instead. The alpha bends over him, cupping his face in his warm palms, and Castiel smiles at the pleasant, electric feeling his touch sparks. “I need you to focus on my voice, can you do that for me?” Of course, of course Castiel can do it, he’ll do anything the beautiful man asks. With him so close, his delicious breath washing over Castiel’s face, Castiel can drink in his ambrosial scent as much as his burning lungs permit. The angel doesn’t move his hands, just keeps staring down at Castiel for a few seconds, and Castiel starts feeling like he’s on fire, skin burning hot, mouth dry. The alpha’s scent begins to intensify as the fever-like heat does, a startling contrast from the rain-chilled pavement.

The alpha’s eyes suddenly go wide and his body tenses, hands falling away from Castiel’s face as he sniffs the air gingerly. “Shit, shit, shit,” he mutters under his breath. “You not on suppressors, buddy?” The angel demands, clapping a hand over his mouth and straightening up. Castiel laughs, stupidly amused by the redundant question. His mouth is dry as a desert and he’s floundering around amid the hellish pain of his head trying to remember how to speak.  
“Don’t need them.” The words come out slurred, each one painfully scraping up his unexpectedly bone-dry throat. There’s moisture on his skin, though, and could it even possibly be _sweat_? He’s so hot he wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t just rain dampening his skin. Dean’s eyebrows furrow and then he’s shutting the door and sliding in up front. The sound of the engine firing up fills his ears, the thrum of it vibrating up through his bones.  
“You still with me?” Dean asks as the car lurches backwards, jerks around in a nauseating turn, then rockets forward. Castiel mashes his eyes shut and clenches his jaw, breathing in and out steadily to try and ward off the pain and nausea rising up like a tidal wave about to bear down on him. “Cas?” Dean prompts, a noticeable change in his now frantic voice. Cas’ mind feels like it’s drifting a thousand miles away, and the pain is clawing at his consciousness. He wants to reply but feels his grasp on reality slipping like sand through his fingers. His last thought is that he hopes when he wakes up, his beautiful angel will still be there.


	2. Actions Speak Louder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by and written for Astrophilla <3

A voice tugs at the edge of Castiel’s consciousness, piercing through the mind and body-numbing fog he’s encompassed in. Something about it seems important… familiar… leaving him straining to pick up the words, even though he doesn’t really understand what they mean. The voice itself is worth the effort of listening in, skimming the surface of unconsciousness. “Sam, I ran into Cas…. No, I _ran_ into him. Sonovabitch stepped straight out into the road while I was rounding a corner and Baby plowed right into him….Yes, it’s definitely him....He’s… well, alive. He’s in intensive care…. Don’t be a dumbass, of course I stayed with him! Yeah, okay….” The rest of the words get lost as they fade out, the high pitched humming and rustling all melting into one montone buzz that dissipates into nothing as he sinks back into the slightly more welcoming arms of darkness.

***

There’s an annoying beeping right next to his ear. It’s too loud, and he makes an unhappy noise in the back of his throat as he attempts to raise one hand and smash it down on the alarm clock. His body feels disjointed, only vaguely like it is his own, but when he attempts to lift his arm and fumble for the clock, he feels a more clear jolt of pain in his shoulder and a sharper one at the crease in his elbow. He grunts, furrowing his brow as he opens his eyes, peering through slits to see what is poking him and why it’s in his bed. The first thing his eyes fall on is a man’s face, pinched with worry, his handsomeness tarnished by exhaustion evident in the bags under his eyes and the unkempt stubble on his jaw. 

Familiarity strikes Castiel as the man’s full lips form words that he’s just now registering, asking him “Hey, don’t move! You’re okay, you’re safe. What hurts, Cas? How are you feeling?”, and with it comes an onslaught of memories no more than a collection of vivid, painful images. Leaving the place he had called home with Balthazar for good. The rain, the dark streets. The headlights, the shock and confusion. Rain clouds obscuring the moon overhead, pain overlaying this image more thickly than what he’s feeling now. This man, whom he’d been sure was an angel, coupled with the best scent to ever exist, rich, heady alpha. The bunch of muscle in the alpha’s arms as he carried Castiel into the car that had hit him. Lurching nauseatingly on the backseat as the alpha drove. Darkness.

The man puts a gentle hand on Cas’ shoulder, just briefly, as if trying to get him to focus. Castiel can’t look away from those eyes, verdant and alluring, even to his watery vision. “Cas? Cas, you with me, buddy? Everything’s okay, you’re in the hospital, you’re safe. You’re gonna be okay, I promise,” the alpha says soothingly, and his scent washes over Cas, comforting and reassuring. So he’s in a hospital, which helps things make a little more sense. That beeping isn’t an alarm clock at all—it’s some kind of heart monitor, and the vague sting in his arm must be the IV needle under his skin. The hazy cloud veiling his senses and making each movement slow and clumsy, each thought weak and barely there must be from whatever painkillers they have him on. None of that really matters to him though, because the beautiful man that was with him earlier is still here, sitting in a plastic chair right next to the side of his bed, raking a hand through his hair and over his angular jaw. 

“Shit, do you even remember me?” he asks, and Castiel blinks dumbly in response. Should he? Was he hit so badly that he’s lost half of his memories to some terrible, ER-flick amnesia? “Well, uh, fun reunion this is. I’m Dean. Dean Winchester, you were friends with my little brother Sam in high school, and we met each other a few times.” Dean laughs halfheartedly, rubbing the heel of his hand at one eye. “Forget it, how are you feeling? Does it hurt anywhere? How’s your head?” Dean. _Dean_. That name sounds familiar, and paired with the voice and face, Castiel remembers snippets of memories. Sam leaving his parents’ house, running outside to get in the car his big brother Dean was picking him up in. Dean driving them places a few times, Dean hugging them both at graduation. He remembers Dean was nice and outgoing, very popular and confident. He was much more outspoken than Sam, which meant Castiel had felt too shy to speak to him a lot of the time. Dean had always been surrounded by pretty girls, and that’s about all Castiel remembers.

“Dean,” Castiel rasps with a smile, wishing he could get a full greeting out. He’s happy to see the man, grateful that Dean didn’t leave him alone here in this uncomfortable hospital bed.  
“You remember, huh?” he smiles hesitantly, before it’s clouded over once more. “Listen Castiel, I know I have no right to ask for forgiveness, but I need you to know that I’m so fucking sorry for what happened, I didn’t even see you when I turned. Oh God, I’m so damn sorry—” Castiel just shakes his head at the apology, offering the alpha another weak smile.  
“S’okay,” Castiel manages before he starts coughing, chest rattling and head pounding viciously as the coughing fit continues. Dean stands up, hands reaching for him and then jerking back and forth between the machines and Castiel, clearly confused on how to help but frantic to do something. He settles with sitting back down and rubbing a hand over Castiel’s chest gently, still saying things Castiel can’t hear over his hacking, but by the sound of his tone they’re meant to be comforting. Castiel tries to breathe in the alpha’s scent to calm himself, closing his eyes and remembering that he isn’t alone, that he at least has Dean at his side for a little bit longer. The coughs subside soon enough, leaving Cas’ chest heaving and his throat burning. The painkillers combined with the resulting dizziness have him squeezing his eyes shut and breathing in and out carefully through his nose, trying to keep the nausea at bay. The pain in his head is becoming more pronounced and he must be making it pretty obvious, if Dean’s worried questions are anything to go by.

A nurse with shoulder length blonde hair and a small figure—beta, by the way she smells—bustles into the room, giving Castiel a practiced smile as she comes over and starts playing with the ECG. “Looks like you got a little excited there for a moment! Are the painkillers wearing off, honey?” she asks, heading over to adjust the IV bags. Castiel shakes his head, not wanting to fall back to drug-induced sleep, because what if he wakes up and Dean has left? His throat is dry though, he could go for some water.  
“Water?” Castiel rasps, and the nurse’s eyes narrow sympathetically.  
“Of course, sugar. Just one second, I’ll be right back with it.” She heads out of the room. Castiel turns to Dean, whose scent is thickly laden with musky concern and the sharp, pronounced spicy tang of protectiveness, both potent and unmistakable. Dean frowns, adjusting the thin white sheets pulled up to his waist. Even Dean’s presence is reassuring on a visceral level, calming Castiel to his core, easing away those feelings of loneliness and loss. He knows they aren’t what he’s wanting them to be, but at the moment, he doesn’t care. He’s just going to take the pleasant sensations and enjoy them.

The beta returns shortly with a clear plastic cup filled with water and something in her other hand, coming over next to Dean at Castiel’s bedside and unfolding her fist to display the two circular pills resting in her palm. Castiel doesn’t recognize them—didn’t he say no more drugs? The nurse reaches for him, rambling “we’re just going to get these in you real quick and easy, just relax,” as she sets the glass on the bedside table and moves to prop him up.  
“I can handle giving them to him, I got it,” Dean jumps in, voice authoritative and leaving no room for discussion, his scent going even heavier on the distinctively protective scent, something like cloves and cardamom. Something must cross his mind, because Dean’s eyes widen and then he’s backtracking, hurriedly saying, “Sorry, forget it, you know what you’re doing, I’ll get out of the way.” The nurse gives him a knowing look, a smile quirking the corners of her mouth up and she gives Dean room.  
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize you two were together.” She hands Dean the pills as he casually moves closer to Castiel, then freezes upon her finishing her sentence.  
“Oh, we’re not, I just --” Dean stutters, eyes blown wide and a faint blush starting to creep across his freckled cheeks. The beta is already heading over to grab the clipboard she’d set on the counter, and Dean stops his flustered explanation and then shrugs, stepping closer, and resumes what he originally set out to do.  
“I don’t want anymore drugs,” Castiel argues weakly. Both Dean and the nurse turn to look at him.  
“They aren’t painkillers, sweetie. They’re suppressors, they won’t bother you,” the nurse claims, and Dean nods, huffing as he edges even closer to Castiel, curving his body to block the nurse out and almost shelter Castiel from her gaze. It’s all very strange but in the best way, warming him to his very core, that is until the nurse’s words actually sink in. 

“Suppressors? You’re mistaken, I’m unpresented,” Castiel says, bewilderment coloring his voice as his brain belatedly begins to piece things together. The nurse purses her lips, giving him a sympathetic look, and then flips through the papers on her clipboard.  
“Not anymore Mr. Novak, you’re an omega. The doctor will be along soon to speak to you himself, he believes your first heat was brought on by your alpha over here,” she begins to explain kindly, words spoken slow enough that Castiel can understand even as drugged as he is. He’s staring straight ahead, shock setting in as he realizes he’s finally _presented_. As an omega. Castiel isn’t so much surprised at being an omega as he is at presenting at all, he’d come to accept he probably never would. All those post-pubescent years of feeling flawed and excluded… He always thought he’d feel better, whole, when he presented. He isn’t sure he does. The nurse continues on but Cas doesn’t hear as she launches into the generic gendering speech he’s heard too many times from high school Health classes and various sympathetic medical specialists. Castiel already knows everything there is to know, and even if he didn’t, he doubts he’d be able to pay attention to her words anyway. He’s still desperately working through the revelation that he’s an _omega_ , even though there had always been hope that he’d follow in his brothers’ footsteps and eventually present as an alpha. The only way he can respond to the nurse’s standard informative speech is with stunned silence. “Alrighty, that all make sense, hon?” she asks brightly, forcing Castiel’s attention back to her words.  
“Yes, thank you,” he clears his throat, wishing he had more water.

Dean finishes up helping him take the suppressors and steps back with a satisfactory smile, patting Castiel on the shoulder, and his scent is suddenly so overwhelmingly lovely and happy, honey and sunshine and cloying headiness, that some hot, thick substance starts to leak from his backside. _Slick._ A flicker of a memory comes with the sensation of the slick slowly seeping through the papery material of the hospital gown he’s wearing when he must’ve been somewhere between unconsciousness and bleary painful wakefulness. He had to have been triggered then, crumpled on the road, half underneath a man’s fender. Castiel swallows awkwardly, berating his body’s terrible sense of timing. A little voice in the back of his head pipes up and tells him that it might have been _Dean_ who triggered him, and not his car. 

Castiel’s eyes widen at the possibility and he struggles to blink away the haze in his vision, trying to return his attention to Dean and the nurse. Dean flares his nostrils, and Castiel really hopes that it’s not _him_ that Dean is smelling. His nervous excitement, only just dampened by panic and surprise. His slick, maybe. The thought knocks him back into a state of tempered shock. The awkward tension emanating from Dean is nearly tangible, made obvious by the tense lines of his body as he frantically glances between Castiel and the new cup of water the nurse holds in her hand. A low growl sounds in the back of Dean’s throat and it sends a thrill through Castiel that he doesn’t quite understand. “You overprotective Alpha types, there’s just no reasoning with you. Alright, go ahead, just be careful,” the nurse finally lets up with a sigh, handing the cup off to Dean. He turns back to Castiel and smiles warmly at him with another of his comforting smiles. 

“Alright, Cas, drink up,” Dean says, and Castiel notices he’s taking short, controlled breaths. It occurs to Castiel that Dean can smell the slick, smell Cas’ pheromones in the air, and that it’s probably making him incredibly uncomfortable, though he controls himself well. Castiel really hopes those pills kick in; he doesn’t want to make this any harder on Dean. Plus, with the slick comes a certain needy desire that he feels deep inside him, powerful and just waiting to claw itself to the surface. It’s a strange ache he’s never experienced before, but he doesn’t dislike it. It’s centered around Dean and pulling at him in all the places he expects. A part of him rejoices that he’s finally taking a part in what he spent so long learning about, that he’s finally presented, that he isn’t flawed and completely broken and worthless. 

“Easy there, I got you,” Dean hums as he slips a hand under Castiel’s neck, warm fingers sending a pleasant tingling feeling from where they rest on his skin. Castiel keeps his eyes on the alpha’s green ones as he lifts the glass of water to Castiel’s lips, supporting his head and keeping it propped at the right angle. Dean touches the glass to Cas’ parted lips and tilts the glass just enough that a slow trickle of water spills into his dry mouth. Castiel’s eyes widen as the cool liquid runs over his tongue and down his throat, only just now realizing how very thirsty he is. He lifts his face closer and urges Dean to tip the glass more, drinking greedily until not a single drop remains.

“Good job, buddy, there’s more, just hang in there,” Dean praises him, and Castiel’s chest warms. The nurse hands Dean another glass of water and Dean jumps back to help Castiel drink, telling him when he’s going to drop the pill into the omega’s mouth and then doing so while Castiel gulps the water down. The pill goes down without trouble and this time when he finishes the glass, he feels sated and much better. Dean puts the empty glass on the bedside table and then gently lowers Castiel’s head back down onto the stack of flat pillows, his hand lingering at the back of his neck a second longer than is necessary before he pulls away, dropping back into his chair.  
“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel replies, the words coming out much smoother now that he has moisture in his mouth. Dean just grins at him, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that makes Castiel’s heart flutter, the heart monitor beeping wildly and embarrassing him.

“Just press the button behind you on the wall if you need anything, hon,” the nurse says with another practiced smile before sweeping out of the room. Dean settles himself back in his chair the way he was before the nurse entered, folding his arms on the edge of Castiel’s hospital bed and propping his chin up on them. Now that the nurse is gone he’s relaxed, looking at Castiel with a small smile curving his lips, eyes more tired than before. Castiel frowns, shifting uncomfortably on the narrow, hard cot so he can face Dean completely, ignoring the gross feeling of cooled slick on his skin. At least it has stopped, probably thanks to the suppressors. Cas’ body is starting to ache and burn vaguely now, mostly in his head, but he still doesn’t want the meds. He’d be content to just gaze back at Dean, re-memorizing his face. He’ll probably berate himself for thinking deliriously contentedly as he is now later, but right now, he’s good to just track every hazel fleck in the alpha’s kind eyes.

The comfortable silence is broken when Castiel figures he should be asking some questions, now that his brain is slowly bringing them to the surface, curiosity getting the better of him. “What happened?” Castiel asks, licking his chapped lips in a futile attempt to moisturize them. Dean frowns, scratching the back of his neck and looking away in discomfort. Of course he looks guilty; he’s the one who hit Castiel, but the omega doesn’t blame him. He really just wants him to stop beating himself up over it, just like he knows he must be doing, haunted eyes giving him away.  
“The doctor’ll be in to speak to you soon, but, well, after I hit you—” Dean winces when he acknowledges it, and the regret coming off him and evident in the troubled lines of his face makes him that much more eager to tell Dean it’s okay, that Castiel is okay, and that he needs to stop feeling bad. “—you got a concussion when your head hit the road, you sprained your knee so there’s a cast on it, you have a few broken ribs that are taped up, a pretty extensive collection of scrapes, bruises, and cuts which are all bandaged or stitched, but nothing major, thank fuck.” Dean’s eyes are vivid with guilt and self loathing, as is his scent, marring the otherwise cloyingly amazing smell. The way he looks at Castiel, muscles in his clenched jaw contracting with emotion and his eyes tortured breaks Castiel’s heart.


	3. Hospital Sweet Hospital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for and beta'd by my love Astrophilla <3

Cas scrambles to soothe the alpha, needing to reassure him and get that wracked look off his beautiful face. “Dean, it’s—”  
“I swear if you say that it’s okay, I’m gonna punch someone in the face,” Dean snaps. “You’re not okay, _this_ isn’t okay. I haven’t seen you in years and how do we meet again? I hit you with my damn car and give you a fucking concussion and a dozen broken ribs!” Dean slams his fist onto the bedside table so hard it makes a cracking noise, and Castiel can’t stop himself from flinching back. The alpha takes a few deep breaths, visibly calming himself, and folds his hands back in his lap, sitting back in his chair. “I’m sorry, Cas. I’m so sorry.” Dean’s voice is scarily quiet now, and Castiel doesn’t know why but he’s desperate to pacify him, so he scrambles to change the subject.  
“It’s not that bad, really,” he says, biting his lip. “It could’ve been much worse. Saved me a night in a motel room too, wouldn’t have got room service there,” he chuckles to himself, but it’s not until Dean’s eyes narrow in suspicion that he realizes his mistake..  
“What do you mean, why were you staying in a motel?” he asks, and Castiel sighs heavily, the movement making his chest ache sharply enough for him to gasp. Dean is instantly out of his seat, hands hovering over his body, unsure of how to help. Castiel waves him off, trying to breathe shallowly so his ribs aren’t in danger of puncturing his lungs. The heart rate monitor beside him is going crazy, and through watering eyes Castiel can see that Dean’s about to punch the button and call the nurse. “Shit, Cas! What hurts? What’s wrong?” The man demands, eyes wide. 

“M’fine, just hurt my ribs. I just have to remember not to take deep breaths is all, so don’t tell me any knock knock jokes,” Castiel deflects with a poor attempt at humor, hopefully closing the subject on his living situation. Dean looks like he wants to press, and Castiel wills him to let it go, but as usual, luck is not with him. Dean sits back down and leans forward, trying to get Castiel to look at him.  
“Hey man, don’t change the subject. Why are you motel hopping?” Dean asks gently, and Castiel turns his eyes to the alpha’s bottle green ones, biting back a sigh of surrender.  
"I..." Castiel starts, eyes downcast as he fidgets with the fraying hem of the pristine linen bed sheet across his lap. "I'm not trying to sell a sob story, here." He glances up at Dean, catching his brows furrowing in confusion.  
"I know that. What happened?"  
"Nothing terrible," he shrugs weakly. "Just that I split with my partner. I was en route to the nearest vacant motel when you ran into me. Bad timing or what?" Castiel gives the man a small smirk to show he is joking, but Dean barely returns it.  
"Oh. I—that's, I'm sorry, man. That sucks."  
"It's okay," Castiel says. "Nothing you should be apologizing for."

A moment passes in terse silence, and Castiel almost jumps at the sound of chair legs scraping on the tiled floor as Dean stands. "I'll be right back, just gonna go caffeinate. You want anything?" he asks, rubbing a hand awkwardly across the back of his neck.  
"I—no, I'm fine, thank you," Castiel replies, running his tongue along his bottom lip. He knew he should have lied about the motel.  
Dean is only gone for around five minutes, but Castiel spends the whole time studying the door, anxiously bouncing his good leg as he worries the edge of the bed sheet between his fingers. He feels himself let out a breath of relief when the man reenters with a shy smile, but quickly raises his brows in suspicion at his decided lack of coffee. "So, uh," Dean starts, rubbing the back of his neck again like a nervous twitch. "I know this is a bit crazy, and I had to call Sam to check I wasn't gonna come across as a total creep by offering, but since I'm the reason that you're in here and you're in a rough patch right now, I'd love it—I mean, it would be great if," he flushes, "if you wanted to stay with me until you're back on your feet. Literally and metaphorically, I guess." Castiel blinks in shock, mouth opening but no words coming out. Of all the things he had been sure the man would say, that he had to leave now, that Castiel was making him uncomfortable, whatever his cynical brain had come up with, _that_ hadn't even made the list. 

"You...?" he trails off, and Dean rocks nervously back and forth on the balls of his feet.  
"I mean it's a pretty big house, you'll have pretty much your own floor, your own space while I'm at work, and you'll be treated with the utmost respect, god, of course—" he rushes out, wringing his fingers. "Is this weird? I'm sorry, it's weird, isn't it." he frowns.  
"No, it's—it's incredibly thoughtful of you, Dean. I couldn't possibly burden you like this though."  
"You're no burden, I promise," Dean cuts him off with a shake of his head. "Like I said, it's a big place. It'd be nice to have some company for once." Castiel gnaws at his lower lip. Could he...? It was insane, staying with a man he hadn't seen in years, had barely known to start with, but...  
"Are you sure I won't be bothering you?"  
"100%," Dean smiles with a hasty nod. "I swear, it'll be all totally above board. I can call Sam back if you want to speak to him about it, kid nearly reached through the phone and punched me for even hesitating to ask." He chuckles, and Castiel feels himself grinning along.  
"No, I trust you," he smiles, releasing the sheets from between his fingers. "It will only be until I've found permanent accommodation, and I'll stay out of your way for as much as physically possible, of course," he adds.  
"Sure, that's fine with me," Dean beams, dropping back into the chair beside Castiel's bed. "Now all we gotta wait for you is you to get the all-clear and we can head out of this nasty place."  
“"You don't like hospitals?" Castiel asks, settling back down in the bed, eyelids growing heavier now that the niggling voice in the back of his head assuring him Dean would be gone every time he woke has been silenced.  
"Hell no," Dean chuckles. "Hated 'em since I was a kid."  
"But you stayed with me?" Castiel asks, tilting his head in confusion as he finally gives in and presses the call button for more blessed pain meds.  
"Course I did," Dean shrugs.  
Castiel's brows furrow as he waits for the man to elaborate, but he says nothing more, and the conversation is cut off by an unfamiliar nurse, an alpha this time who has Dean sitting rigidly in his chair and anxiously cracking his knuckles. 

"It's fine, Dean," he manages to croak out, the last of the morphine wearing off having him in too much pain to console the man better. He doesn’t even really know _why_ he feels the need to console him, but he does. He subconsciously leans into Dean's hand as it strokes through his hair, and angles his body the best he can so that he's closer to the comfort of Dean's body warmth. His ears are starting to ring as his consciousness get blurrier, but after a moment of tense words between Dean and the nurse that he hardly catches, he feels sharp coldness seep into his vein from the inside of his elbow. The anesthetic must be entering his bloodstream, and it is just seconds later that the relief it brings spreads through him, quieting the burning of his ribs and knee and the vicious aching of his head. His exhaustion takes over once the pain has been dulled to a subtle discomfort and he eagerly embraces sleep, knowing that he can give in because his alpha isn't going anywhere, will keep him safe. 

 

***

Castiel wakes again, cracking his eyes open and narrowing them to filter out the light streaming in through the open window blinds. Dean hasn’t moved an inch from the chair, though he has fallen asleep bent over Castiel, his snoring loud and coaxing a smile from him. He finds himself reveling in how surprisingly good he feels. Though he may be injured, his pain only masked by the morphine, and the creeping realization that he’s got nothing but a few clothes and books to his name dawning on him, none of it can detract from the over all sense of well being he’s finding himself feeling. The heady, distinct presence of alpha—warm, secure, comforting alpha—is creating a pleasant buzz in his head, a biological feedback loop, and even during his most intimate times with Balthazar, he’d never felt like this. The presence of an alpha always made Castiel feel uneasy and tense. Dean’s the only one who has—and is having—this effect on him, and he thinks that he’s going to need more suppressors, since the sanitary towel they stuck underneath him is already becoming uncomfortable, every deep inhalation of Dean’s scent bringing with it a fresh wave of slick. 

Castiel can’t help it; he just smells so good, and his strong form draped over the side of the bed, head resting on his folded arms that he’s propping up on Cas’ thighs, is undeniably possessive, leading Castiel to wonder if the nurse from earlier’s presence prompted Dean’s choice of sleeping position. Or maybe he hadn’t—what if it was instinctual? Either way, he’s happy just to enjoy the alpha’s presence. He manages to keep his body in check for a few minutes before the flow of slick becomes impossible to ignore. It’s hot and thick, soaking him as he becomes ultra aware of each line of Dean pressed over his legs, the smell of him, which he’s sure is more gratifying and addictive than any drug available. It both satisfies and ignites something deep inside Castiel on the most visceral level, and paired with the alpha’s closeness, he loses all control over the slick flowing from him, the flutter of his internal muscles doing nothing to stop it. Castiel squirms a little as he feels it soak through his hospital gown and pool underneath his backside on the sheets, sensitizing each nerve in his skin as it spreads. 

He feels his cheeks flush, beads of sweat gathering at his temples and in the base of his throat as he observes the man, filled with desire he’s never had before. A distant part of him knows what’s going on, why the side effects of his very first heat are hitting him. He knows that this is only the beginning, that he’s going to get a lot worse, and the fact that he doesn’t have anyone to get him through it will only make things harder. He’s sure it’s been only hours since his first dose of suppressors, but he needs more, or his hardening erection covered only by the hospital gown and thin sheet is going to be a very demanding problem. Dean continues to snore, his jaw slack, and when Castiel’s heat-crazed brain realizes how very close Dean’s mouth is to his throbbing groin, he’s unable to restrain the needy whimper that seems painfully loud in the relative peacefulness of the room. Dean’s eyebrows draw together, making his beautiful face look pinched, and then he blinks his eyes open, confused and concerned. “Cas? You okay, buddy?” he asks, voice rough from sleep. The sound of it sends a jolt to Castiel’s now rock hard erection and he bites down hard on his bottom lip to keep from moaning. 

There’s a moment of awkward silence, and before Castiel can react, Dean’s pupils are dilating so much that only a sliver of green is visible. Alertness creeps back onto his sleep-creased face, and with inhuman speed he sits up in his chair, claps a hand over his mouth and nose, and scrambles to hit the call button behind Castiel’s head. “Fuck Cas, I—I’m sorry, I need to get out—” Dean stutters, words muffled by his hands. Castiel whimpers automatically, his entire being protesting his— _the_ —alpha leaving him even for a minute, something inside of him coiling tight and sending panic through him just at the thought, but he nods jerkily and carefully turns over onto his side, pressing his thighs together and hoping that the bulge of his erection is no longer visible. Slick is now spilling down over his backside, coating his skin and dribbling down over his flesh. The pressure he’s putting on his ribs is making his breathing labored and his erection is throbbing the stronger Dean’s scent becomes. The alpha’s chest is heaving as he pushes his chair back from the bed and darts out of the room, both hands smothering his nose and mouth. Dean leaves behind him the overwhelming, heady scent of alpha, of Dean, and it has Castiel barely restraining the urge to turn over and rut against the thin mattress. The heart monitor is speeding up and only gets worse when Castiel’s hole quivers and leaks another gush of hot wetness. He groans, biting the inside of his cheek and mashing his face into the pillows, desperate for relief but unwilling to find it.

Thankfully a nurse—omega this time, he thinks, but gods, the scents are overwhelming him—comes into the room with a bottle of suppressors and a glass of water, crooning comforting words that fall on deaf ears. Castiel adjusts himself so that he can take the glass of water into his hands and take a big drink, pushing two of the green pills past his bone dry lips and swallowing them back like his life depends on it. “Alrighty, we’re going to get you into this wheelchair and I’ll change the sheets on your bed in jiff. And then we’ll get you into a new gown and right back into bed.” The nurse smiles consolingly at him and Castiel just sighs as she starts to maneuver him out of bed and into the wheelchair waiting for him, glad he can already feel the drugs beginning to work their way through him. It’s a tricky process, but Castiel tries to help the best he can, feeling his cheeks color when his softening erection and slick-soaked hospital gown are visible for her to see. She pays them no mind, practiced and confident as she unties the back of Castiel’s gown and disposes of the towel, depositing them both in a receptacle by the door. Since the woman is making all of this seem like nothing, Castiel has sufficiently relaxed, and his mind starts to wander back to the growing unease he’s feeling with Dean gone. He hopes he didn’t alarm him, or worse, make him disgusted with the whole thing, disgusted by him. The thought has Castiel’s anxiety climbing higher with each minute Dean stays away. 

The nurse helps him into a fresh gown, tying the strings in the back, and then Castiel watches as she strips the bed of its slick-stained sheets and puts new ones on in record time. As the suppressors kick in, the slick stops coming and his erection softens the rest of the way, only the lingering symptoms of his heat still present. The nurse finishes up and then helps Castiel back onto the cot, and he has to admit he feels much better without everything being drenched in cooling slick. The nurse finishes adjusting the sheets over his legs, opening a window just enough to let some fresh air in and let the smell of slick dissipate. She offers him one more smile and another promise that help will come in no time if he needs it again, that all he has to do is press the button, and then she leaves. Dean comes in just seconds after, the alpha releasing a relieved sigh and smiling at Castiel as he gets back in his chair, shoulders visibly relaxing. Castiel returns the grin and notices Dean sliding his phone back into his jacket pocket. Dean’s smile broadens as he sees Castiel looking. “Guess what, there’s been a change of plans, and now Sammy is coming up for Christmas! He’s going to stay for the first half of his winter break, just a week or so away.” 

“That’s great, I’m looking forward to seeing him,” Castiel replies, and he genuinely is, but it’s impossible to not notice just how forced Dean’s smile is, the way he refuses to fully make eye contact, his gaze bouncing around items in the room. An awful feeling starts to set in, dread growing as Castiel wonders just how uncomfortable he’d made Dean. Now that his hormones aren’t acting up and he can think straight, a sense of mortification is settling in, and if the suddenly worried look on Dean’s face is anything to go by, he must smell distressed as well. “Dean, I--I’m sorry. As I’m sure you’ve inferred, this is all pretty new to me, and I… I clearly don’t have the best self-control. I feel awful for making you uncomfortable…” Castiel swallows hard, staring at his fingers twisting into the corner of the blanket, “I’ll get a motel room, it’s no problem for me, but I can’t expect you to to tolerate this in your own home.” His words are thick, throat tight with unexpected emotion. He’s not sure where the distress is coming from, but he brushes it off as hormonal imbalance as he bites at his bottom lip to keep it from trembling and betraying him any further. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, his scent growing more potent with a blend of honey and cloves and musk as he assesses Castiel with confusion and concern in his eyes.

“What? No no no, Cas, I just—I needed to get out for some air before I fucked up and acted like some total knothead. Nothing about this is your fault, I’m not uncomfortable, I just wasn’t expecting you to smell so...” Dean licks his lips, making a deep, rough noise in the back of his throat that sends desire coiling low inside Castiel, even with the suppressors. His eyes widen with surprise at the sound he’s just made, as if just now realizing how explicit it sounded, and snaps his jaw shut, scent growing thick and embarrassed. As Dean flounders, his words sink in, and Castiel is involuntarily smiling, a lovely, sugar-sweet feeling of being wanted washing over him like it never has before. Dean really thinks he smells that _good_? Warmth floods through the omega, heart swelling in his chest. The alpha clears his throat, raking a hand through his hair.  
“I don’t want you to worry, I swear I will treat you with nothing but the utmost respect, it just… it caught me off-guard. But if you’re still comfortable to, you’re more than welcome to stay with me, it’s the least I can do. Oh! And Sam says hi! He’s excited to see you and says ‘get well soon’,” Dean finally says, having scrambled to hide his embarrassment with a change in subject. Castiel smiles and nods, happy to listen to Dean go on about the plans they could make once Sam arrives. He’s missed his friend greatly; it’s been far too long since they’ve last talked. Just then, the doctor comes into the room, holding a clipboard in one hand and the other reaching out for Castiel to shake. 

“I’m glad to see you’re up, Mr. Novak. I’m Dr. Jacobsen and right now we’re going to take an assessment of your condition, just a standard physical and check up, that sound alright?” The middle-aged beta nods at Dean and then looks back to Castiel, already pulling light blue latex gloves onto his hands.  
“Yes, okay,” Castiel responds, attempting to prop himself up more as the doctor raises the hospital bed so he’s seated instead of lying down. Dean hovers protectively while the doctor takes Castiel’s blood pressure, presses a hand against his chest and back and asks him to inhale and exhale, shines a light in his eyes and asks Castiel to track the movement of his finger. Castiel patiently obeys each command, knowing the sooner he complies the sooner the exam will be over, and the sooner he can leave. The doctor asks him a few basic questions about himself and past events— probably testing for amnesia and other side effects from the concussion—and Castiel is relieved that he’s able to answer each one without trouble.

“So, Mr. Novak, according to your medical records, you were previously unpresented. Though such late presentation might have caused complications, you appear to be completely healthy and I’m not worried, though I would advise you to see an obstetrician within a few weeks to assess your fertility. Everyone is different; some present earlier or later than the majority do, and that’s perfectly okay. Now that you’ve presented, you are aware of the implications, I assume?” Castiel is blushing so much he feels like his cheeks may be on fire. Dean is looking at him with a look of surprise on his face, but thankfully, no disgust. Castiel is sure he wouldn’t have been able to handle seeing that on Dean’s face, aimed at him and especially over something he’s always been so insecure about. He nods sharply and the doctor smiles, scribbling something down on his clipboard before rolling the gloves off his hands and throwing them in the trash receptacle. 

“Well, you’re making a speedy recovery, and everything seems sound for you to go home,” the doctor says, setting the clipboard down. Castiel exchanges a look with Dean, finding the man grinning excitedly and he chuckles. “I just need to clear your release forms and prescriptions with your alpha, and you’ll be able to leave in the morning if everything continues to go as smoothly as it has been.” Before Castiel can correct him, say that Dean isn’t _his_ alpha, Dean gets up immediately and follows the doctor out of the room, telling Castiel he’ll be right back. He didn’t even blink at the insinuation, he just went with it. _Your alpha_. The thought sends a thrill down Cas’ spine that he inexplicably craves more of.


	4. Walking on Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by and written for Astrophilla <3

Dean returns without the doctor a moment later, a form in one hand that he folds up and stuffs into the back pocket of his jeans. “It’s looking good, buddy! We’ll get the hell out of here in no time,” Dean says cheerily, perching on the edge of Cas’ bed and busying himself with adjusting Cas’ pillows. “Like I said, I really hate hospitals. Ever since Sammy ended up in one when he was seven and broke his arm falling out of a tree.” Dean frowns and Castiel tilts his head, squinting up at the alpha.  
“I see. I can assure you that I don’t want to be here anymore than you do,” Castiel answers, wrinkling his nose when he turns his face against the pillows and scent of the burning anti-bacterial soap they must’ve been washed in makes his eyes and nose sting.  
“Well, we can try to pass the time with some shitty daytime TV,” Dean smirks as he reaches for the remote and turns on the small, ancient looking TV mounted on the wall across from them. While Dean scans through the channels, making offhand comments every few clicks, Castiel directs his attention to him. The alpha looks beautiful, again captivating Castiel with the brightness of his eyes and the deep tone of his voice with every sarcastic “A three-in-one blow dryer that can be all mine for just one easy payment of nineteen-ninety nine? Too good to be true,” making the omega huff a laugh. What really strikes him though, over and over again, is the heady scent radiating from the man.

He smells absolutely heavenly, the scent of him luscious but distinctly alpha in a way that Castiel has never before been so drawn to. He closes his eyes and inhales quietly, taking his time in identifying each component of the best scent to ever grace the earth, one that comforts Castiel and ignites something within him at the same time. The thick smell of rain on dry land, sandalwood, a bite of mint, sunshine on skin are all so very _Dean_ , Castiel can’t get enough of it. He’s always been unsettled and overwhelmed by the alpha scent, but with Dean, it only makes him feel safe and comforted, and it’s somehow all the more more addictive. Throughout his life, nothing has even come close to smelling the way he does. He idly wonders why Dean smells so good to him, and something buried deep in his brain fires off a vague memory from a cheesy romance movie he was forced to watch with his brother, Gabriel. 

There are loads of movies in which the couple starring played True Mates -- a Hollywood trope supposedly rooted in truth that everyone couldn’t resist -- portraying the concept where an alpha and omega are both biologically and spiritually perfect for each other. There are tons of movies where some blonde-haired omega finds her True Mate, usually a macho alpha, and they have a happily-ever-after with tons of children and squeeze as much sappiness from the tale as possible. Castiel had heard the story many times; his mother used to tell it to him before bed, and he’d read a few books about the immensely rare anomalies where True Mates found each other, and existed in the first place. It’s a fable everyone knows and likes to hear, feeding off the idea that there is someone out there for them who was essentially _made_ for them, where perfect love is a guarantee if they can just find that one person and be the one out of a billion. Of course, realistic people like himself didn’t believe in it; after all, even if perfect compatibility like that is real, it’s ridiculous to think that he himself is the one special guy who will find he has a True Mate. 

Sometimes he would fantasize about the notion, just as everyone has done at least once before. He’d seen enough movies to know the tell-tale signs: the scent of your True Mate smelling like the best thing in the entire world, the seamless fitting of the two in all regards -- personality, emotionality, mentality. The pair was designed for each other by nature, different and similar in all the right ways, perfectly compatible even beyond the roles of alpha and omega. It’s such a far-fetched notion, giving young children unrealistic expectations and exaggerating the capabilities of love and the ‘click’ mates experience. With that on his mind, Castiel back tracks to the scent element of it all. Dean’s scent, without a doubt, is the best thing he’s ever smelled, and it has a visceral impact on him that no one else’s scent ever has, by quite a long shot. It is… rather surprising, to say the least. Castiel isn’t deluded or optimistic enough to entertain the possibility that it means something, however, no matter how strange and undeniably different the scent factor is. His train of thought is derailed when Dean snorts loudly, nudging Cas’ shoulder with his own. “Dr. Sexy is fucking hilarious!” Dean throws back his head and laughs, the sound indulgent and rich.  
“Dr. Sexy?” Castiel prompts, shaking himself from his stupor.  
“Dr. Sexy, M.D. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen it before!” Castiel furrows his eyebrows, peering at the fuzzy screen and seeing two nurses talking to a doctor.  
“I’m afraid I haven’t.”  
“Well then we’re going to have to marathon it at home, you’ll thank me later.” Dean advises, turning his attention back to the screen. 

The two end up deviating their attention from watching more reruns of the tacky drama, instead talking about what they’ve been up to since high school. Castiel learns Dean got his GED and was hired by a family friend to work at a local auto salvage. Castiel is glad that -- judging from the grin on Dean’s face -- he must love the job. It warms his heart to hear Dean go into that vaguely familiar proud big brother mode, telling him he sends all the money he can spare to Sam for tuition, reminding Castiel that they didn’t have parents to help out with the costs either. Their mother died when they were little and their father died in military service, leaving Dean to take care of Sam, a job which he loved and fully devoted himself to. Castiel has to say that he’s thankful that their close brotherly bond came out of all that suffering and loneliness. He wishes it was different, that their family hadn’t been broken like this, having gone through so much. He tries not to focus on the tragedy of their parents’ deaths, and instead considers their relationship. It’s endearing how much Dean loves his brother, especially remembering how much Sam used to look up to him. Castiel tells Dean how he’s been in and out of work since he graduated college with his degree in Theology and fulfilled all of the mandatory requirements necessary to become a teacher, teaching at various high schools wherever he moved. He tells Dean briefly about Balthazar, awkwardly trying to skim over the topic, and Dean must be able to sense that it’s hard for him to talk about, because he brushes it off with, “Good riddance, asshole.” 

As soon as Castiel gets tired, Dean flicks the TV off and helps him get comfortable, pulling the sheets up to his shoulders and patting his shoulder before he says goodnight. Castiel lifts his head as Dean turns the overhead light off, then comes back over to sit in the chair. “Will you stay?” he rasps, stomach clenching at the possibility that Dean might leave him. He knows it’s irrational for him to have grown so attached so fast, but he’s too tired to fight it.  
“Yeah, Cas, I’ll just be sleeping in the bed-thing the nurse brought for me instead of in this torture device of a chair,” he jerks his thumb over his shoulder and once Cas’ eyes adjust to the semi-darkness, he sees a cheap fold-out cot shoved up against the wall.  
“Alright. Good night, Dean,” Castiel says, and he can see the white of Dean’s teeth contrasting with the darkness as he smiles.  
“Night, buddy.” Dean gets up to go lay down on the narrow cot, his body too long for it, legs hanging over the end. Castiel tries to get comfortable on the hard mattress substitute, shifting until he can find a position that doesn’t put pressure on his aching ribs. The painkillers they’ve switched him to aren’t as strong as the previous ones, leaving him more aware of the many pains littering his body, but on the upside he’s not as sleepy and out of it all the time. It’s a trade off he’s willing to take, since it’s edging him closer to getting back to normal again. He wasn’t kidding about his extreme dislike of the hospital; Dean’s the only thing making it bearable. The flashing lights and the sounds of the machines around him are nearly driving him crazy, preventing him from fully surrendering to sleep. Dean starts snoring, and the rhythmic rumble of it, combined with the ever-present comforting musk of his scent, somehow lets Castiel fall into unconsciousness.

Castiel wakes up to Dean talking to a nurse from earlier, both of their voices whispers as if to keep from waking him up. As their words pull into focus, Castiel realizes the nurse is giving Dean instructions of some sort. The list of things to take care of him with is already daunting so he tunes out, cautiously stretching his back before his torso aches worse, and then gives up, moving around to better see Dean and the nurse and let them know he’s awake. He’s very thirsty and actually hungry, for the first time since being hit, and he supposes this is because the meds tampered with his appetite as well. “Dean,” Castiel croaks, his voice rough and scratchy from the lack of moisture in his throat, and the alpha immediately turns to him, expression visibly softening.  
“Hey, bud. How you feeling?” Dean asks, coming over to stand by the bed. Castiel makes a face; there are too many discomforts to mention, and he doesn’t want to worry Dean by complaining about them all.  
“Better than before,” Castiel answers, attempting to sit up. Dean reaches over to prop the pillows up and press the button to fold the bed forward, which does help quite a bit. He realizes there are no longer needles and tubes extending into his arm, just bandages over the crease on the inside of his elbow and two paper wristbands they must’ve put on him. The heart monitor is off, thankfully, and Castiel is no longer hooked up to it. He turns questioning eyes to Dean and the nurse, his hopes already soaring.

“If you’re feeling up to it, we can leave soon,” Dean answers Cas’ unasked question. He brightens at that, breathing out a sigh of relief.  
“I’m ready, if everything else has been taken care of.”  
“Not quite yet, Mr. Novak. We have to get some oral pain killers in you, and from then on for the next 4 to 6 days, you’ll need to make sure you take them at six hour intervals, with food. I’ll also need you to sign the release forms, and you can be on your way.” The nurse gives him a kind smile and hands him a glass of water with two circular white pills, and two more green ones that he now recognizes are suppressors. Castiel takes them two at a time, swallowing them back dutifully and greedily draining the glass as acute thirst takes over. He hands it back and the nurse fills it for him again. Castiel eagerly drinks while she grabs the crutches leaning against the wall and positions one under each arm, her hands wrapping around the metal bars half way down. “Have you used crutches before, Mr. Novak?”

“I haven’t,” he replies, blushing a little at the mildly surprised look Dean gives him.  
“Well they’ll very easy to learn how to use and will help you walk so you don’t put pressure on your knee.” The woman shows him how to use them, her movements fluid and natural, and Castiel is pretty sure he understands and can handle them. If it is as easy as she makes it look, Castiel should learn it fast enough.  
“I’m gonna go get some clothes for him out of the car. Be right back, Cas!” Dean says, smiling at him over his shoulder before he ducks out of the room.  
“While he does that, how about we cover the release forms? I already talked with your alpha about the medications you’ll need to take and everything else you’ll need to do for your recovery to go smoothly. He’ll be sure to watch for signs of internal damage from the concussion you sustained, but don’t worry about that, all you need to do is focus on getting better. Do you have any questions?” Trusting that Dean can supply him with the needed information, Castiel shakes his head, positioning the pen in his hand and signing the two spaces above where Dean signed. He doesn’t bother reading the tiny print; all the pain killers and suppressors have his head feeling foggy and slow, drowsy even though he just woke up. “Great, thank you!” The nurse takes the clipboard and pen back, setting them on the counter. “Once you are dressed, you can try out the crutches.” Castiel nods, turning his attention back to his body. If he focuses through the cloudy haze dulling the pain, he can identify the places where it burns, aches, or throbs. His chest and his knee are bad, but his head is worst. Nothing he can’t handle, though.

Dean comes back a minute later with his arms full of wadded-up clothes. He dumps them on Castiel’s lap, and he immediately recognizes them as his favorite ratty, holey gray sweatpants, a pair of his boxers, thick wool socks, a white t-shirt, and his heavy winter coat. “I got these from your suitcase, I hope you don’t mind. Didn’t think you’d want to wear a hospital gown out in this weather,” Dean cracks a smile and Castiel thanks him, unable to stop his own responding smile. Dean turns away as the nurse swiftly helps Castiel dress in them, for which Castiel is grateful. As soon as he’s clothed, he swings his legs over the side of the bed, being careful not to bend his sprained knee, which is encased in a cast from his ankle to the bottom of his thigh. He already is annoyed by his diminished range of motion, but he knows it’s necessary. “How long do I have to wear the cast?” he asks the nurse. Dean grabs Castiel’s shoes from where they’re sitting side by side at the foot of his bed and kneels in front of him, slipping his feet into them and deftly tying the laces. 

“Two weeks, maybe less, and then you can transition to a brace,” the nurse answers, and Dean tugs the last knot tight and stands, reaching for the crutches. Castiel thanks him and Dean waves him off, like it’s no big deal for him to take care of anything Castiel can’t do himself.  
“Alright, buddy. What do you say we give these bad boys a try?”  
“Um—” Castiel starts, not sure how to ask for help with getting the crutches where they need to be without seeming pathetic. Dean is messing with them, fitting one under each arm and then gripping tight to the bars. He bends one leg back and then scoots both crutches forward, putting his weight on them as he swings forward. Dean does so too vigorously and the right crutch twists, going out from under him and sending him sprawling on the floor with the crutches pinned under him, a clattering thud following.  
“Sonovabitch!” Dean swears, shoving himself onto his hands and knees and then standing, glaring accusingly down at the fallen crutches.  
“Are you okay?” Castiel asks, wary as Dean brushes himself off and stoops to pick up the crutches.  
“Just peachy. But don’t worry, that won’t happen to you,” Dean promises with a jaunty wink, handing the crutches over to the nurse. “Alright, let’s get you up and you’ll be crutchin’ around in no time!”

Castiel eyes the crutches dubiously but follows Dean’s instructions anyways, grabbing onto his arm with both hands as he carefully drops both feet onto the floor, leaning heavily on the alpha so he can keep his weight completely off his bad knee. Blood rushes in his ears and a wave of vertigo washes through him now that he’s upright, head pounding violently in time with his heartbeat. Castiel squeezes his eyes shut and wills away the nausea and dizziness, stomach clenching as he rides out the initial headrush. “You good?” Dean asks, eyebrows raised slightly, tone hinting at concern.  
“Yes,” Castiel answers, for fear of nodding his head will only make matters worse. It gradually subsides and he inhales through his nose. “I’m ready.” The nurse hands Dean a crutch and the alpha nudges it under Cas’ left arm first, one arm on his shoulders to keep him steady while he gets his grip on it. With that done, Dean does the same with the other crutch, one arm around Castiel’s waist and the other hovering just in front of him, ready to catch him if he can’t keep upright. Castiel just stands there for a minute, getting used to the feel of his new crutches and finding his precarious balance on them. Dean slowly lets go of him and Castiel tenses his arms, making sure he can support himself with Dean’s absence. 

Gingerly, Castiel steps the crutches forwards and then gently uses the momentum to push his body ahead, making sure he doesn’t make the mistake Dean did and go past the crutches. He takes a few more wobbly steps, getting used to the feel of walking without using his right leg. Dean stands close the whole time, arms twitching every time Castiel gets a little too shaky or falters, even just a little. His presence is soothing though; Castiel doesn’t mind at all. “Alright, you good to go, buddy?” Dean asks. Castiel nods, offering him a small smile that he hopes looks more confident than he feels, and Dean turns to the nurse.  
“Just let the receptionist know you’re checking out, and you two can be on your way. There are several numbers for you to call if you have questions or concerns on the cover form. The line is open twenty-four seven.” The nurse holds the door open. “I wish you a speedy recovery, Mr. Novak.” With that, Castiel heads out, leaving Dean to grab all of the forms and tuck them under one arm while the other is still positioned over Castiel’s back but not touching, at the ready in case he falls. The two make their way down the hall and into an elevator, where Dean hits the button for the ground level. They head down in comfortable silence, and when the doors ding and slide open, Castiel hobbles out slowly and heads towards the double doors while Dean goes to tell the receptionist that they’re leaving. He trusts the alpha will have no trouble catching up.

He’s right—Dean doesn’t even have to jog ahead to open the door for him, telling Castiel to watch his step as he vigilantly watches his shuffling feet. Castiel blushes a light shade of red, just now realizing how much attention Dean has been and will be giving him. He’s not used to being looked after or worried over, and it’s strange but a little comforting. It does mean he’s going to have to be extra careful not to trip and make a fool of himself, though. At least Dean doesn’t seem annoyed by his slow pace as they trek through the parking lot in search of his car. Luckily, it’s not too far off, though Castiel is breathing heavily by the time they get there, his body using up oxygen faster than his lungs can get it in. Dean opens the passenger side door for him and helps him slide in without trouble and then throws the crutches into the backseat, right next to where Cas’ suitcase rests. Dean shuts the door and then gets in behind the wheel, starting the engine. The noise is vaguely familiar and Castiel focuses on committing this new association with it to memory instead of the old one.

“Alright, so here’s the plan, if you’re up for it: we need to stop at a pharmacy and pick up your meds before we can go home. We’ll be really quick, I promise.” Dean looks over at Castiel as he accelerates down the road, and he nods, gazing out the window at the snow that has began to fall, the rainstorm he had been caught in having given way to much more typical winter weather for this area. The hospital parking lot has been cleared of snow and salted so he isn’t in danger of slipping anymore than he is with crutches in the first place, but the roads are clearly much worse; they aren’t plowed, the snow a slushy dark brown that contrasts with the bright snow piled up to the side of the road. Castiel instinctively shivers looking out at it, and Dean frowns, turning the heat up and aiming the vents at Cas. “You like classic rock?” Dean asks, grinning slyly as his fingers find the volume knob. Before Castiel can answer, Dean is blasting Asia and singing along shamelessly, hitting the steering wheel with his palms in time with the drums. Castiel smiles widely, amused, as Dean makes exaggerated facial expressions to match the lyrics, deciding that the headache he’s got is worth it if he can just keep watching Dean’s dramatic air drumming. He can’t help but chuckle, wondering if he would join in if he knew the words.

Dean finds a parking space as close to the first chain grocery store they come across, this one complete with a Starbucks and a pharmacy built right into it. Castiel feels himself wishing he could just ask Dean if he can stay in the car and sleep, internally balking at the idea of having to get out and stumble around on crutches through the store in the condition he’s in. But the thought of Dean leaving without him, on some visceral level, makes Castiel willing to go through the effort and pain without complaining. Besides, he doesn’t want to burden Dean anymore than he already is, and showing the alpha that he’s not completely helpless, even if he’s desperately trying to suppress a heat and has only just been released from the hospital, seems like the best way to go about this. “Grab onto my shoulder,” Dean halts his train of thought, now standing next to the open passenger side door, crutches propped up against the Impala as he reaches for Castiel to help him up.  
“Oh, sorry,” Castiel apologizes, hurrying to comply, swinging his legs a little too carelessly out of the car and hissing at the flare of pain when his sprained knee bumps into Dean’s leg.  
“Whoa, easy there, we’re not in a rush,” Dean assures him, his scent betraying the concern behind the easy statement as Castiel grits his teeth and grasps onto Dean, relying on the alpha to get him on his feet. His stomach pitches and his head spins, but he closes his eyes and breathes steadily in and out through his nose, clutching onto Dean’s shirt for dear life. He’s not too sure his legs won’t give out under him, or that the dizziness and pounding in his head won’t make him pass out. 

“Sorry,” Castiel apologizes again, finally feeling like he’s steeled himself enough to begin their journey into the store. He’s never been so weak and pitiful in his life, and he’s determined to make up for it by not getting in Dean’s way and wasting his time.  
“Quit apologizing, Cas. I hit you with my car, for fuck’s sake, _I_ should be the one apologizing a mile a minute,” Dean says as he positions a crutch under each of Cas’ arms, then tugs the hood of his jacket up over his head to keep out the lightly falling snow.  
“You already had your turn with over-apologizing,” Castiel grumbles light-heartedly, unable to stop the smile that follows Dean’s dramatic eye roll.  
“Alright, enough pointing fingers. Let’s head inside, it’s freezing out here,” Dean throws Castiel a crooked smile and steps back to let him balance on his crutches, finding equilibrium and mustering up what remains of his strength. The alpha pulls his own hood up, blowing hot breath on his hands and rubbing them together as the two start heading for the store entrance. The parking lot has thankfully been plowed, or at least enough cars have gone through to reduce the snow to brown slush, which Castiel is grateful for. Their pace is agonizingly slow, but Dean doesn’t complain and Castiel bites his tongue to keep from apologizing again. He’s funneling all his concentration into stepping the crutches forward so they don’t slip and making sure his muscles can take the weight he puts on them as well, a demanding and exhausting combination.


	5. Intuition Over Instinct

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by and written for Astrophilla <3

They’re halfway to the door and Dean is clearly on edge, eyes darting from Castiel’s feet to his face and back to his feet again. Castiel is determined to make it, never mind his labored breathing or the way he’s surely contorting his face in pain. Everything is starting to ache and throb viciously, and all he wants is to lay down somewhere warm, where the cold doesn’t turn his exposed nose and hands to ice. Dean is watchful and anxious as ever, his attempt at feigning nonchalance comical at best. Castiel huffs, his good knee nearly buckling as the crutch slips on a patch of ice and Dean snags him with a muscular arm around his waist. It keeps him from falling, but it also squeezes his damaged ribs and he gasps in pain, black dots swarming at the edges of his vision and threatening to bore into his eyes. “Oh fuck! Shit! Sorry Cas!” Dean apologizes quickly, sliding his arm up to brace Cas’ shoulders instead while he catches his breath and fumbles for the crutches.

“I’m fine,” Castiel wheezes, settling himself on the crutches and forcing his good leg to support his weight before he attempts moving forward again. Dean stops him with a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.  
“This is stupid, Cas. You’re just gonna hurt yourself worse like this. We should’ve gotten you a wheelchair or something….There’s gotta be something else we can do. I should run in and grab everything real quick while you can wait in the car, seriously,” the alpha suggests. The alpha had suggested as much twice before Castiel’s stubborn determination to prove a rather dumb point -- that he’s strong enough to still function like a normal person -- and Dean had relented, at least temporarily, seeing as Castiel wouldn’t budge on the matter. Castiel shakes his head as much as he dares with the looming threat of another wave of vertigo.  
“No, I’m really fine, I want to help,” Castiel says, persistent. As nice as it sounds, he really does want to go along and give Dean a hand; he’s determined to be useful and not crippled or impaired, and least of all, a burden to Dean in any way. And if he doesn’t want to be away from Dean, then the alpha doesn’t need to know that. Dean reluctantly doesn’t argue, presumably seeing something on his face that changes his mind, and they continue on. The cold bites at his skin and the snow clumps up on his eyelashes, sticking to his jacket and sweats. Almost there. Never before has a simple walk from the car to the store ever been so treacherous. 

What feels like an eternity later, they finally make it past the automatic sliding doors and into the warm, well-lit store. Castiel releases an audible sigh of relief and Dean chuckles, brushing snow off his shoulders and giving him an assessing once over. The alpha looks doubtful, and Castiel doesn’t blame him; he must look pretty pathetic, covered in snow, weak, needy, and distressed, a cast on his leg and crutches the only thing keeping him upright. His muscles are quivering with exertion and he feels his face must be flushed from the cold. It’s definitely no wonder Dean reeks of concern, the sharp, woodsy aroma of musk and spice radiating off of him, a small frown on his face. “How you holding up?” Dean asks, pulling a cart out of the line by the doors and pushing it over to Castiel.  
“I’ll live,” Castiel promises.  
“You’re not in too much pain?” Dean prompts, eyeing Castiel skeptically.  
“The painkillers are still in effect.” Dean runs a hand over his mouth, thinking.  
“Sure you don’t want to take a break and rest? The pharmacy isn’t going anywhere,” Dean jokes, but the smell of clove and thunderstorms only grows stronger.  
“I’m good, Dean, really,” Castiel offers him a smile, hoping that he can convince the both of them that he is more stable than he feels.  
“Well let me know if you do need to stop or if something is hurting,” Dean advises, then his confident smile is back in place. “Let’s go!” 

Castiel hobbles along on his crutches at Dean’s side, being careful not to step too close to the cart or into a display as Dean steers them towards the beverage section. The painkillers are definitely on their way to wearing off now, but Castiel has his mind set to not let his pain interfere with anything. He can handle it for just awhile longer, until they have the medication and everything else is out of the way. Even before they made it into the store Castiel was spent of his energy, leading him to really feel the exhaustion and his injuries now. He’s still just as adamant to come along, not giving up just yet, even though his ribs ache with each breath, his knee burns and protests each step forward though he’s not even using it, and it feels like a migraine is brewing between his temples. Walking has become much more of a chore than it was in the parking lot, even with the ice and slush to trip him up. They’re nearly to the shelves lined with bottled sports drinks, the only products left in this aisle, when Castiel steps wrong on his good foot and his knee buckles, the crutches slipping and clattering out from under him and leaving him crumpling with the pain in his sprained knee flaring to life.

Before he can hit the ground, Dean catches him, securing a strong arm around his shoulders while he reaches out with his free hand and steadies him. “Okay, that’s enough walking for now,” Dean grumbles good-naturedly, tightening his arm around Cas’ shoulders and slipping them behind his knees, taking care to support the sprained one without bending it.  
“What—” Castiel starts, and then Dean gathers him to his chest and lifts him up, carrying him over to the cart and gently, carefully setting him down inside of it. He grabs Cas’ crutches and sets them inside as well, smiling crookedly at Castiel and taking off his brown leather jacket to stuff between Cas’ back and the metal side of the cart for cushioning.  
“You’re on cart duty now, buddy. No use arguing, just enjoy the ride,” Dean smirks, pushing the cart the rest of the way to the sports drinks. Castiel just rolls his eyes and huffs, though he can’t help but feel amused at Dean’s obvious pride with his solution. His instinct is to argue and keep trying to walk, but he knows there is a difference between not giving up and being pointlessly stubborn. And so what if he looks stupid, riding around in the cart like he’d done when he was a small child? He’s too tired and in pain to care what anyone thinks at this point. Castiel adjusts himself so that he’s comfortable, folding his good leg up and stretching the injured one out so his calf is propped up on the opposite side. He leans up against Dean’s squished-up jacket, and feels another fluttery warm feeling in his chest acknowledging the gesture, how Dean’s went out of his way to try and make him comfortable. 

“What kind of Gatorade do you like?” Dean asks, turning to scan the shelf before them. Castiel peers over at the brightly colored assortment of beverages.  
“You don’t need to get me—” Dean cuts him off with an exaggerated roll of his eyes before repeating his question.  
“Fruit punch,” he gives in and answers. Dean reaches up and grabs six of the big bottles, passing them one by one to Cas, who scoots over to make room for them and sets them in the cart.  
“Good choice, though lemon-lime is better,” Dean teases, then turns the cart around and pushes it down the main aisle before turning left, into the cereal section. The alpha starts humming under his breath as they pass the orderly rows of cereal boxes on uniform shelves, and Castiel can’t help but grin at that, admiring how beautiful the man looks just wheeling the cart along in search of one thing or another. People mill around them, grabbing boxes off shelves, talking to one another or depositing things into their carts alone. Some give Castiel a few curious glances but he ignores them, eyes intent to track the flex of muscle in Dean’s back beneath his shirt as he reaches up to the top shelf to grab a box of protein bars. The scents of all these people passing by—omega, beta, alpha—are overwhelming to Castiel and make his head hurt, but stronger than them all is Dean’s reassuring, lovely scent, soothing his nerves and allowing him to relax. Dean’s presence helps as well, calming his instinct to tense up at the scent of other alphas being around. It’s an instinct he’s never had before and it comes as a shock, unsettling and strange, leaving him constantly on edge.

Before he’d presented, everyone seemed equally harmless to him, but now with his dramatically improved sense of smell, he is automatically wary and tense around alphas. How do omegas handle it all the time, especially if they don’t have a comforting alpha’s scent to block out the intimidating stench of the other alphas? He’s very thankful that he didn’t develop this stronger sense without Dean and his ambrosial scent sticking by his side and making it bearable; he can only imagine how much more difficult his transition into scenting these things would be without him. He trusts Dean, and feels safer than ever with him here. It’s still bewildering how the alpha can have such an effect on him. Now that he’s presented, every alpha seems to ratchet up his nerves and put strain on his newly founded instincts, yet somehow Dean’s scent has the exact opposite effect, the one comforting scent among the dozens of darker, more unsettling ones coming from the alphas passing through.

Dean steers the cart over to the men’s section of the clothing department, still humming happily, while Castiel peers out, adjusting his bent leg to make room for the snacks and taking care not to bump his bad leg in the process. Dean parks the cart next to a shelf of socks, then turns and faces the shelves of underwear across from them. He starts grabbing packages from different shelves, tossing them in without looking to see which ones he’s selected. Castiel ducks out of the way, watching in puzzlement as Dean flings a few more packages in and then turns back to him, a light blush coloring his freckle-dappled cheeks as he hurries to push them out of the underwear section. “There you go, thought you might need these,” Dean replies to the confused look Castiel is sure he’s sporting. The flush on the alpha’s face deepens a few shades and he stares pointedly at his hands where they grip the cart, hurriedly heading out of the men’s section. Castiel squints at him, tilting his head as he processes Dean’s words. It suddenly occurs to him why he’d need extra underwear, something he’s never had to worry about until now. The blood rushes up into his own cheeks as he realizes Dean’d thought about the slick abundance Castiel would have to deal with before he himself even considered it. The silence is awkward and embarrassed, and Castiel wishes Dean would start humming again, or at least talk about something else.

As if he sensed Castiel’s thought, Dean launches into a story about pie and how Sam would never remember to get it whenever he was over for holidays or just because Dean ‘really wanted some damn pie’. “He’d always bring _cake_! Every damn time!” Dean laments, exasperated, as he steers the cart over to the bakery section of the store. Castiel chuckles quietly, relieved, while Dean goes on, stopping the cart next to the assortment of pies sitting on the tables. “Looks like we’re going to have to make up for lost time. You like cherry?” Dean asks, grinning widely as he scoops up a pie packaged in a plastic tin, a red ‘cherry’ label stuck across the top.  
“Yes, cherry is pleasing,” Castiel nods, and Dean smirks triumphantly, placing the pie gently in the cart, as if it were a treasure.  
“Hmm, think we should get some cinnamon rolls for breakfast? It’s been awhile since I’ve gone grocery shopping,” Dean admits, scratching the back of his neck, “Figure it’d be good to have some real food at home for awhile.”  
“Get whatever you’d like, Dean. I’m not picky,” Castiel promises.  
“Well I could go for some cinnamon rolls instead of last night’s take out for breakfast, so I’m gonna go grab some. Don’t go anywhere!” Castiel rolls his eyes at that.  
“I have a sprained knee and broken ribs. I doubt I would be able to get out of the cart without assistance,” Castiel deadpans, and Dean’s resulting loud, indulgent laughter sends warmth blossoming through his chest, temporarily distracting him from the growing burn of his chest. He really needs those painkillers, and hopes the pharmacy will have them ready soon.

Dean strides off to grab a container of cinnamon rolls and Castiel watches him as he leaves, eyes tracing the strong lines of his broad shoulders, his slightly bowed legs, the way his jacket fits snug over his arms. He’s distracted when the scent of alpha washes over him, setting off alarms even in his drug-addled brain, alarms that scream _wrong wrong alpha wrong_. Castiel tenses up and attempts to breathe through his mouth and lessen the potency of the scent, reminding himself that not every alpha will smell tolerable to him, and that they rarely mean danger. It’s just his natural response, something that never was so… _insistent_ before he presented. He tries to keep his instincts in check, sternly attempting to quiet them, but they don’t cooperate. The new alpha’s scent is thick and pungent now the man comes into view, smelling sharp and bitter in a way that has him wrinkling his nose without consciously making the decision to do so. He smells far more abhorrent than all of the other alphas that had passed through, and it immediately sets Castiel on edge. Castiel forces himself not to flinch away or fold in on himself, though his heart beats faster as if on automatic, some background sense in his head warning him to flee. _Nothing's the matter, relax_ , he tells himself, trying to still the omega instincts now that they’ve fully surfaced. 

The alpha turns towards him, and Castiel avoids eye contact, stupid heart overreacting in his chest. _Wrong wrong wrong._ “Mmm, hope you don’t mind me being sorta blunt, but you smell damn good, even for an omega,” the alpha says appreciatively, giving Castiel a thorough once over. Castiel can’t fight the urge anymore and shrinks away, pressing his back up against the cart and drawing his good leg closer to him. It’s all coming back to him now, the biological defensive mechanisms he’d paid little mind to until now that he’s presented and experiencing them in full. Scent is one of the biggest indicators the body uses to protect itself, and a certain person smelling far worse than the rest must be some important aspect of this he’ll have to examine later. His breathing is now noticeably faster, and internally he berates himself, knowing that things are about to start getting out of hand if he can’t get a hold of himself and respond like a mature, not-heat-crazed adult.  
“I—I’m not—” he’s not even sure where he’s going with the sentence, but thankfully, Dean is jogging back over. His face is contorted into something fearsome, eyebrows pinched together at the center, jaw set, his hand clenched so tight around the cinnamon roll container Castiel wonders how it’s still in tact. As soon as he reaches the cart, his scent washes over the omega, strong and beautiful, if having changed to smell sharper and even heavier than usual. Castiel recognizes the distinct scent, all spice and storms, and even if he couldn’t smell him, just one look at his body language and expression communicates his emotions. The other alpha is bristling himself, his scent darkening and becoming more sour with aggression and tension. It’s nearly nauseating, making Castiel feel sick, emphasizing the pain of his injuries and reminding him how small he is in comparison, how weak he is, wounded and incapacitated.

Dean nearly shoves his way between the cart and the alpha, his back to Castiel, and both alpha scents intensify almost simultaneously. The contrast between the comforting, wonderfully heady and heavenly scent of Dean and the stomach-churning sickly sour smell of the other alpha hurts his head. He wants to breathe in Dean’s scent until it’s all he can smell, let it seep into him and chase away any unpleasantness and lingering fear. The omega in him craves it, craves the relief it—Dean—brings. “Hey, pal, can I help you with something?” Dean nearly growls, the friendliness in his voice falling flat. The alpha squares his shoulders, jutting his chin up and baring his teeth at Dean. He’s probably an inch or two shorter and lacks the thick, defined muscle Dean has, and it seems both have taken note of this fact. Calm spreads slowly through the omega; his alpha has things under control, everything will be okay now that he’s here. _Not my alpha._ Castiel reminds himself sternly, head spinning.  
“I don’t need _your_ help with anything. Just talking to my friend here,” the alpha counters, edging closer to Castiel and making his heart rate spike with an involuntary flash of _flee._  
“Yeah? Your _friend_ doesn’t really look like he’s enjoying your company, so I suggest you move along.” Dean’s voice is authoritative and leaves no room for discussion, blatant threat behind his words. He sets a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and squeezes reassuringly, and Castiel leans into the touch, inhaling as big a breath of that sweet, redolent scent as his broken ribs will allow. He wonders in the back of his mind what he smells like to them, and can only hope that it isn’t fear. 

The tension between Dean and the other alpha is nearly tangible, as if it were alive and crackling with electricity. The acrid tang of hostility makes Castiel’s stomach lurch nauseatingly and he bites at the inside of his cheek, willing his body to behave. Dean’s eyes blaze with green fire, a look with which the other alpha matches evenly, thick brows drawn low over brown eyes. Dean angles his body so the alpha can no longer see Castiel, shielding him from his predatory gaze. Castiel peers around Dean, watching the offending alpha’s eyes flash, a muscle jumping in his clenched jaw. Though the mingling scents of on-edge alpha should make him uneasy to the point of giving into the urge to cower away—especially with the heightened fetid scent of the alpha clashing with Dean’s pine-and-leather fragrance—Castiel now only feels inexplicably safe. He has no doubt that Dean is responsible for his ability to suppress the omega in him’s desire to whimper. For a second, Castiel is sure the smaller alpha is going to lunge, but the alpha speaks before anything goes further.  
“Yeah whatever, let him enjoy your dickbag company instead,” he grumbles tersely, shooting a glare at Dean before turning and walking off. Dean doesn’t relax his stance until the alpha is out of sight, only then turning back to Castiel and rolling his eyes as he sets the abused container of cinnamon rolls into the cart.  
“What an asshole,” Dean lets out a low whistle while wheeling the cart towards the pharmacy branch of the store. “Let’s get out of here, huh? Your meds should be ready for pick up now, it’s been a half hour, and I’m sure you wanna get home.”

Castiel nods gratefully, sighing in relief as they approach the pickup counter at the pharmacy. Dean chats with the pharmacist as she repeats what the doctor had said earlier, about when to take the meds and for how long. Dean hands back the white paper bag to Castiel as he signs off the papers and thanks the woman, while Castiel eagerly opens the bag and takes out the little orange bottles, searching for the codeine. Now that his painkillers have almost completely worn off, he’s more than eager to take them, but the warning label says that they must be taken with food, so he has to wait a little longer. He can do this—all they need to do is checkout, and then they’ll be on their way. Dean steers them over to the nearest empty checkout lane and Castiel helps lift the contents of the cart onto the conveyor belt, making short work of it. Dean seems to sense his eagerness to leave, for he makes quick work of purchasing the items and depositing the bags into the cart. The journey back to the car takes only a minute, now that they aren’t slowed by Castiel hobbling along on his crutches. Dean helps him into the car first and then dumps the groceries into the trunk. Once he slides in behind the wheel and starts the car, he looks over at Castiel, gaze concerned and assessing once again. The sun-and-honey scent that can only fit Dean in his caretaker mode—something that Castiel has already been exposed to long enough to identify it specifically as that—fills the air and Castiel tries to be discreet inhaling it, finding that it creates a sort of comforting haze in his brain. 

“You hungry? It’s been awhile since you’ve eaten, and I don’t really count hospital lime jello as food, so in that case, it’s been even longer.” Dean questions, and Castiel’s stomach answers for him with a deep growl that leaves him blushing, embarrassed. Dean chuckles, turning his head to look behind him as he backs out of the parking space. “Whattaya say we get some real food? You like burgers?”  
“Anything sounds good right now, but hamburgers are always a favorite of mine.” Castiel hums, stomach clenching just at the thought of a juicy burger, stacked high with all of his favorite condiments.  
“Awesome! I’ll call into a diner so we can get take-out and you don’t have to get out, that way we can just eat in the car and you’ll have some food in you to take the meds with.” Dean nods to himself, pleased with his problem solving, and Castiel likes how that sounds almost as much as he likes the way the corner of Dean’s mouth hefts up at one side, displaying his teeth in a lopsided grin.  
“I would like that,” he confirms, and that’s all the go ahead Dean needs before he makes a quick call and orders two house burgers and fries and then heads off for the diner. Castiel closes his eyes and slumps against the door as he waits for Dean to come back, his injuries, exhaustion, and hunger somehow more pressing when the alpha isn’t around. Luckily, Dean returns in just minutes, one hand holding two styrofoam take out containers stacked on top of each other and the other holding a cardboard drink holder bearing three drinks. Dean climbs back into the car, turning the heat up to full to combat the burst of cold air opening the door let in, and turns the music on at a thankfully low volume. “Eat up! I didn’t know what kind of milkshake you wanted so I went with chocolate because who doesn’t like chocolate?” He laughs to himself as he sets the drink holder between them and hands over a take out box. 

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says gratefully, mouth watering as he opens up the container and picks up the hamburger, which has a thick grilled patty topped with melted cheese, grilled onions, bacon, lettuce, tomatoes, and some creamy sauce. Nothing has ever looked or smelled so good in his life, and his stomach attests to the fact by making another embarrassingly loud noise.  
“No problem. Here, take these,” Dean deposits four pills into Castiel’s palm, two of which he now recognizes as suppressors, and the other two are the codeine. “The third cup is water,” Dean hints, and Castiel nods thankfully as he swallows back the pills with a mouthful of water. Now that those are down, he digs into his food, eating with abandon. It’s like he can’t get the food in his mouth fast enough, his stomach clenching like he hasn’t eaten in days. Everything tastes absolutely amazing, and he makes sure to tell Dean as much.  
“Harvelle’s does have the best burgers, ever. I used to work there before Bobby hired me at the yard.” Dean comments around a mouthful of fries, reaching for his milkshake.  
“You were a cook?” Castiel asks.  
“Nope—bartender. Not a bad job, don’t get me wrong, Ellen and Jo who own the place are like family to me, but working on cars suits me more. Still, I had some good times there and made a decent amount to send to Sammy,” Dean reminisces.  
“I remember you used to work on this car with your father a lot when I came over to study with Sam,” Castiel recalls thoughtfully, remembering how he’d see just Dean’s jeans-sheathed legs poking out from underneath the Impala, John giving out instructions and handing him down tools. It’s no wonder that Dean now makes a living fixing them up; it’s fitting, and he must enjoy it, which makes it the best kind of job to have. Castiel would know. He used to have a job that was his passion too, teaching different faiths from around the world. Religion fascinated him, no matter how un-Christian his mother had deemed it for him to teach Hinduism or Islam or pretty much anything that wasn’t the beliefs he was raised upon. He frowns, chewing slowly as his stomach cramps in protest to the sudden abundance of food it’s being given. He really had enjoyed teaching, but—a sudden thought occurs to him and he almost chokes on his food as he remembers. 

“Yeah, Dad taught me everything I know.” Dean smiles, his tone bittersweet as he crumples up the hamburger wrapper. “Take it easy on the food, buddy. It’s been awhile since you’ve had anything substantial in your stomach, and I’m no doctor, but I think that means you should pace yourself so you don’t get sick,” the alpha advises, but Castiel is too busy processing what he’s just now remembered to heed the warning. “Cas?”  
"I have a job interview December 28th, I'd completely forgotten!" Castiel exclaims, a little too loudly. 

How had it slipped his mind?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a merry Christmas and a happy New Year! :) Now, as promised, it's time for the new and improved (and regular, yay!) posting schedule:
> 
> Starting from today, every other Tuesday I'll post a new chapter. This isn't set in stone, however -- if something comes up, then the dates could temporarily fluctuate. 
> 
> Also! I am no doctor and don't claim to have any medical background. Many liberties were taken regarding medical accuracy, so forgive me if they don't seem likely or as medically sound as they should. 
> 
> Thank you so much for bearing with me thus far, it should be smooth sailing from here on out! As usual, I absolutely love hearing from you and your comments/kudos make my day!! Thanks for reading! <3


	6. Mi Casa es Su Casa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by and written for Astrophilla <3 She's a kickass editor and an even more kickass person who has handled my rather copious editing needs like a champ, bless her :')

“I have a job interview December 28th, I’d completely forgotten!” Castiel exclaims, a little too loudly. How had it slipped his mind? He’d been searching for months for a potential job opening, desperate to get back in the classroom where he belongs. The day of the accident, he’d gotten a confirmation email telling him when and where the interview would take place, and just the prospect of returning to his teaching career had filled him with excitement. He did, in retrospect, get hit by a car, so he knows that his temporary lapse is more than warranted. Most importantly, he still has plenty of time to attend the interview and hopefully show that he is qualified and enthusiastic.  
“Shit, Cas, that’s awesome!” Dean congratulates, smiling broadly and patting him gingerly on the shoulder, as if afraid to agitate any of his injuries.  
“I can’t believe I almost forgot,” he smiles sheepishly, finishing off his milkshake. His stomach aches and he can’t remember the last time he’s felt so full, especially after finishing off a normal sized meal.  
“You got hit by a car and presented in the same night, it’s not surprising that it might’ve slipped your mind,” Dean defends him as he polishes off his fries. Castiel shrugs, pushing the remainder of his fries over to Dean.  
“I’m just glad I remembered in time. I’ve been looking for a job opening for months now and this is the first one that I’ve actually gotten a reply back from. I’d hate to let the opportunity go to waste.” Dean pushes the fries back over to him, shaking his head.  
“You sure you’re done with these? You haven’t eaten hardly anything for awhile…” Dean looks from the fries up to Castiel, his spicy scent growing woodsy with concern and that distinct caretaker musk that Castiel has smelled more of in the last forty-eight hours than in his entire life. He nods, nudging them over.  
“I’m full, thank you, Dean,” he smiles reassuringly at him, hoping to ease the alpha’s worry.  
“Anyways, that’s awesome that you’ve got an interview soon! You’re gonna ace it,” he promises, cramming more fries into his mouth. Only Dean could look attractive talking with his mouth half full of food, but how he manages it is a mystery. 

They make comfortable small talk as Dean finishes up his food and they get back on the road, headed for Dean’s home. A weird nervousness trickles through Castiel as he considers what lies in store for him. He’s actually going to be living with Dean, sharing his home with the alpha, and that fact simultaneously excites him and makes him uneasy. Dean had told him he lives alone except for when Sam would come up to visit on his breaks, and the last thing Castiel would want to do is disrupt Dean’s normal life style. The alpha has already done so much for him, and gotten nothing in return, which makes the bigger issue Castiel is worried about rear its head. He dreads being a burden, especially since he has nothing to offer Dean in return for everything the alpha is giving to him. He knows that this is going to be a huge change in Dean’s day to day life as well, considering now the alpha will have to deal with accommodating Castiel. The list of things he’s going to need help with is so daunting he wouldn’t even impose it on his closest family member, let alone an old friend he hasn’t seen or had contact with for years. Dean has already been so kind to him, and while Castiel looks forward to spending time with his friend and getting to know him better, he hates that he is going to be so bothersome. 

While Dean rambles on about how much he doesn’t want to return to work, Castiel chews at his fingernails, worrying as he actually takes a moment to realize just how many things Dean is going to have to help him with. It doesn’t help that he’s also in heat—his first heat, at that—which is a seriously uncomfortable thing to be in when in close quarters with an alpha who isn’t his partner. Taking care of an omega in heat isn’t an easy job, _especially_ when said omega is injured and handicapped by a sprained knee. Castiel feels horrible that Dean is taking on a responsibility usually only saved for a mate or close family by letting Castiel stay with him in this condition. He promises himself he is going to stay out of Dean’s way and ask as little of Dean as possible, and will contribute to the household in any way that he can. He wouldn’t have agreed to burden Dean with all of this if Dean had only requested Castiel stay with him purely as an act of reparation, but since the alpha claimed he also desired Castiel’s company, he couldn’t help but accept the offer.

Castiel’s train of thought is brought to a halt with the car, Dean pulling into a two-car garage and killing the engine. The pine and leather perfume of Dean’s scent spikes up a notch, broadcasting his excitement as much as his giddy smile and eager scramble to get out of the car. While Dean comes to his side and helps him up, keeping one arm firmly around his shoulders as he bends over and fetches the crutches from the backseat for him, Castiel looks around. There’s a wide space to the left where he’s parked the Impala, and on the other side, a floor-to-ceiling metal shelf laden with tools and car parts. Before he has any time to get a good look at anything, Dean is beckoning him to follow through the entrance opposite the garage door, one Castiel presumes leads into the house. He’s wishing he’d been paying attention earlier and gotten a better look at the house from the outside; he vaguely remembers that it’s fairly big, two stories, and is a dark green color. “Watch your step,” Dean warns, helping him up the two stairs leading to the doorway and holding the door open for him. Castiel shakily maneuvers himself into the house, his exhaustion and inexperience with getting up stairs on crutches a tricky combination. He finds himself in a spacious kitchen, open to the living room adjacent, with an island counter at the center and a round kitchen table with four chairs pushed over to the left, next to a huge window. The kitchen is immaculately clean, all appliances shiny chrome, countertops black and silver granite. 

Now that he’s gotten a good look at the kitchen, Castiel hobbles into the living room, his curiosity getting the better of him. The wood floor gives way into cream colored carpet, a perfect compliment to the black leather couch and matching recliner at the center of the room. A flat-screen TV is mounted on the wall across from it, a glass coffee table in between stacked with coasters, a couple books, and a few empty beer bottles. Sunlight reflecting off the snow outside pours in through the windows on the southern wall, and Castiel takes a moment to peer closer at the picture frames hung on the adjacent wall. A smile curls up the corners of his mouth as he recognizes Sam in nearly every one of them, his age ranging from being just a baby up until he’s in one wearing a high school graduation cap and robe, a diploma in his hand, sporting a toothy smile. There are a couple pictures of John and a kind-looking blonde-haired woman—Mary, Castiel recalls. “Mi casa es su casa, Cas. Make yourself at home,” Dean says, popping up in front of him and grinning like a little kid getting to show off all his new toys. Castiel can’t help but smile back—Dean’s smile and enthusiasm are both contagious. The alpha smells ambrosial like this, his home smelling like him as well, the scent of him lingering in the leather a hopefully subtle inhale tells him as Dean helps him over to sit down on the couch, propping his crutches up against the side. 

“I’m gonna grab your bag real quick, and then we can finish the tour,” Dean calls over his shoulder heading back into the kitchen. Castiel nods and turns his attention back to the room. The omega isn’t able to hold himself back from taking a deep breath in, drinking in the absolutely heavenly scent of Dean clinging to everything in his home. It’s doing something strange to his brain, making him feel safe and content, and Dean isn’t even in the room with him yet. It takes a considerable amount of self restraint not to bury his face in the bunched up blanket shoved to the end of the couch and inhale. While Dean’s home is very clean, it’s still clearly lived in, the beer bottles and mess of blankets a testament to that. He sinks into the couch, eyes slipping shut as he draws in another heady breath, sleepiness washing over him now that his instincts have successfully deemed it a good place to relax. It’s comfortable and soft and exudes the woodsy sunshine spice of Dean’s scent, something deep inside himself soothed and gratified just by breathing it in. He’s not quite sure he understands it but it feels too wonderful and _right_ for him to be bothered by just how much he wants to curl up and sleep here. Wasn’t there some psychological term for this? Nesting? No, no way is that what this is. Dean’s a friend, not his mate, not his alpha, and he carefully reminds himself of that fact for the umpteenth time today. Dean’s house is just cozy, and the alpha smells exceptionally redolent, and that’s the _only_ reason that Castiel is on the verge of laying down and drifting off into sleep. Of course it’ll have that effect on him, considering he’s tired and exhausted from the exertion and meds. Regardless, it’s definitely not the unprecedented nesting instinct newly mated omegas get. He must really be tired, if his drug-addled brain decided to mistake what’s actually happening to him and supply him with that loaded term instead.

“Here we are,” Dean grunts, walking into view with his arms laden with Castiel’s bag and the plastic grocery bags from the store. He drops them with a huff and starts to put away the groceries, and Castiel sits up, squaring his shoulders and straightening his shirt. He must look like a mess, now that he thinks of it. He’s not quite sure how many days he was in the hospital, but he can definitely feel just how much he needs a shower, desperate to get the burning chemical hospital stink off him and wash the grease out of his hair. God forbid he needs help with the shower; he’s not sure he could live through the embarrassment. While Castiel worries over the possibilities of just how bad that could go, Dean finishes up putting away the groceries and drags Castiel’s bag over to the couch, slinging the strap over his shoulder and reaching out a hand to him. “Whaddaya say we finish the tour? There are two guest bedrooms for you to pick from, and then you can settle in.” Dean gives him an encouraging smile as he looks doubtfully from his leg to the staircase. “I can carry you up,” the alpha offers slyly, and Castiel is sure the offer is entirely serious.  
“No, I can handle it,” he hurries to assure Dean before he makes a move to pick him up. Castiel takes the outstretched hand and gets slowly to his feet, aching muscles protesting the movement and his head throbbing erratically in time with his heartbeat. Dean wraps an arm around his shoulders to steady him as he squeezes his eyes shut and breathes in and out through his nose, adjusting to being upright on his feet as quickly as he can so Dean doesn’t change his mind and carry him anyway. 

Dean takes the crutches and pins them under the shoulder bearing the weight of the bag, allowing Castiel to lean into his side and clutch onto him for support as he starts the arduous journey up the stairs. Dean does most of the work, all but lifting Castiel off his feet, and the omega is sure he wouldn’t have made it past the first two steps without Dean taking the bulk of his weight and helping his unsteady feet maneuver the steps. The painkillers have finally set in and he’s immensely thankful for that, despite how clumsy it’s making him. Dean has no trouble at all gently hauling him up the steps and all Castiel really has to do is hold onto him and make sure his feet don’t catch on the stairs. The alpha returns his crutches to him once they reach the top, which opens up into a hallway lined with doors on both sides. “Doin’ okay?” Dean asks, a hint of spice overlaying his usual sun-and-pine scent and giving away his concern. Castiel really must look like a trainwreck, and he’s not holding up much better. A shower and some sleep should do wonders for him, and will hopefully replace the tang of cloves coming off Dean nearly all the time with more of his sunny, happy scent.  
“I’m good, just tired and in need of a shower,” Castiel grins at him to show that he’s fine, really, and straightens his back, hoping to look less like he’s about to keel over. The painkillers really do help, otherwise he would probably be just about there.  
“I’ll make up your room while you take one, but first, you gotta pick out which one you want,” Dean opens the door nearest to them on the right and steps inside, gesturing for Castiel to follow. He carefully steps with his crutches into the room, stopping in the center and looking around. There’s a queen-sized bed shoved up against the right wall, a huge window with the curtains drawn back from it across from him, and a dresser next to a walk in closet on the left wall. The room is warm shades of brown, the queen bed bare as the walls, and while it’s nice, it doesn’t feel lived in, lacking the pictures on the walls and worn furniture the rest of the house has. 

“And this is the other room,” Dean calls over his shoulder, hurrying back into the hall to open the next door, this one on the left, and reveal the next room. Castiel follows, and this one opens up into a slightly smaller room with another queen sized bed, this one directly beneath the window opposite the door. This one has a nightstand by it, but no dresser, though there is a closet to the left. There’s an armchair with a rug in front of it in the right corner, but aside from that, this room too is bare. This room is the same color scheme as the one downstairs, though the chair isn’t leather, instead a navy blue that goes well with the cream colored carpet and walls.  
“I like this one,” Castiel announces, padding over to peer out the window. Instead of facing the street below like in the last room, this one gives a view of the snowy forest that must be Dean’s backyard. Though this room is smaller and more compact, there’s something about it that appeals to him more than the other. It seems somehow cozier, and Castiel can actually see himself sleeping here, even if this all feels new and like he’ll never adjust to so much change so quickly, contrasting deeply with his old, predictable set way of life. That’s gone now, and he’s ready to embrace a new start living here with Dean.

“Awesome! Sammy likes the other room better anyways,” Dean smiles and Castiel has to tear his eyes away and look back out the window so he doesn’t stare. The alpha smiling is one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen, from the way his eyes light up to the sliver of teeth his full lips expose. “I’ll get the sheets and blankets for your bed and bring up your stuff while you take a bath.”  
“I can help—” Dean cuts him off with a stern look, but there is kindness in the bottle green of his eyes, the sun-and-honey scent of him warming Castiel from the inside out. It’s the caretaker fragrance that shadows nearly every one of his memories from the hospital.  
“You can help by taking a bath and washing off the hospital stink. It’s covering up your natural scent with chemicals,” the alpha complains good-naturedly, wrinkling his nose to make Castiel chuckle. “The bathroom is at the end of the hall, you go on ahead.” Dean pauses from carrying Castiel’s bag over. “Unless you need my help with anything… shit, you’re gonna need something to cover up the cast-”  
“I can just take a bath and hang my leg out so it doesn’t get wet,” Castiel explains. He’d already thought this through a few minutes ago, desperately trying to come up with a solution that wouldn’t involve putting them in an uncomfortable situation. He’s sure Dean wouldn’t mind and it wouldn’t be awkward for him, but Castiel, on the other hand, is awkward and shy enough that he’s sure he would make a fool of himself if Dean were to give him a hand with undressing. Dean still looks uncertain, eyeing Castiel’s leg, on the verge of protest. Castiel hurries to assure him further before the alpha can argue. “I’ll be fine, really. The painkillers have kicked in and I know to be careful. I’ve been taking baths since I was a child, I’m quite practiced at this point,” he attempts a joke, hoping he doesn’t sound as nervous as he feels. If he doesn’t sound like it, he’s sure his scent is giving him away and can only pray Dean doesn’t read into it.

The joke gets Dean to relent, a small smirk the sign of tentative surender. “Alright, alright. If you need help with anything or hurt yourself, just shout and I’ll give you a hand.” Dean compromises, and Castiel nods too vigorously for his previously concussed head, dizziness making his vision blur and his sense of balance falter. Dean helps him into the bathroom, which is thankfully spacious and like the rest of the house, spotlessly clean. There’s a bathtub with a showerhead mounted on the wall over it, the counter tops in here black granite flecked with silver, a black mat on the tile flooring, matching fluffy black towels draped over the towel rack behind the toilet. Dean squeezes in beside him, setting his bag on the counter and doing a quick survey of the fittings. “There should be a bottle of shampoo and a couple bars of soap under the counter I keep on hand for when Sam stays, you’re welcome to use ‘em.” Dean darts to get them out and set them on the countertop for him. “Wait, did you want me to run you a bath?”  
“No thank you, I've got it,” Castiel replies, finding Dean’s caring offers endearing.  
“Alright, well if you need anything else or need help with something, let me know,” Dean smiles, though he still looks unsure about the whole leaving him alone with a ‘challenging’ task ordeal.  
“Thank you,” Castiel calls as Dean leaves, and the alpha waves him off in response. Once Dean is out of sight, Castiel shuts the door but refrains from locking it as he usually always does when in the bathroom; if something does go wrong and he falls or something, Dean won’t be able to get in and help him if the door is locked. It’s a precaution he makes sure he takes, though he’s going to do all he can to prevent any sort of fall happening in the first place. Castiel turns to his bag to get a clean set of clothes out, but he stops when he catches sight of himself in the huge mirror above the sink. 

He hardly recognizes his face beyond the damage done to it. His bottom lip is swollen and bright red from a butterfly-stitched cut, his right eye is swollen too, and the whole right side of his face is a patchwork of bruises, purple and green most prominent at the curve of his cheekbone and temple. There’s a particularly gruesome cut at his hairline and another just above his right eyebrow, both angry red lines with black stitches pulling at the inflamed skin. He has to look away from them, the nausea threatening to make a comeback. He’s always been a little queasy, and seeing his injuries for the first time up close is not a good combination with his full stomach. He instead focuses his attention elsewhere, on his messy, greasy hair and on the bags under his eyes. There’s a scrape at the edge of his chin that his gaze lingers on for just a few seconds before he decides that he needs to stop looking at his reflection altogether. A flood of dismay washes through him when he realizes this is how Dean’s seen him. He knows it’s ridiculous, but something about Dean seeing him while he looks this horrific sends ice pooling through his veins. Of course, he’d just gotten hit by a car and stayed for several days in the hospital and only just now is getting the chance to see himself and clean up, but that doesn’t make him feel any better, no matter how pointless it is for him to even care. He’s far from conceited, though he acknowledges that on some base level, he wants to look…Castiel shakes his head, dismissing the ridiculous thought. 

Sighing heavily, Castiel shuffles over to set the soap bar and bottle of shampoo on the edge of the bathtub, then reaches in and puts the stopper in the drain before turning on the water. As the tub fills, he leans against the counter for support and takes off his winter coat and t-shirt, averting his eyes from the bruises blossoming across his taped-up chest and the curving line of stitches just below his right shoulder. There are scrapes and lesser cuts all along his right arm and over his hip, and he sits on the closed toilet lid and attempts to get the sweatpants and boxers off without catching them on the cast or bumping his sprained knee. The air grows hot and humid, the mirror fogging up until he thankfully can no longer see his injuries reflected back in it. He toes his socks off and then leans over to shut off the water, pushing the shower curtain all the way to one side before he arduously gets to his feet, the dull ache of his ribs flaring as he sucks in too deep of a breath. Carefully, Castiel steps into the tub with his good foot, putting all of his weight on it as he shifts his body over to follow it. He clutches at the railing built into the side of the wall inside the shower and slowly lowers himself down into the hot water, making sure the leg with the cast remains completely out of the water. Once he’s lying on his back and submerged up to his neck, he relaxes into the bath, letting the tension drain out of him with a long exhale. 

Castiel closes his eyes and marvels at just how _nice_ the hot water feels, soaking into him and soothing his aching muscles like magic. He allows himself a long moment to just lay here and relax, imagining it drawing the pain out of his cuts and scrapes and quieting the throb of his bruises. Cracking open his eyes just enough to see, he reaches for the bar of soap and lathers up, scrubbing the bar gently over his arms and leg, avoiding his ribs and any area where there are stitches. The medical tape on his chest must be waterproof and for that he’s glad; he’s not sure he’d know what to do about it since he had rather stupidly zoned out for the instructions, so he figures just leaving it be is his best bet. This is the first moment since he got hit that he’s actually felt good, and he plans to draw it out for as long as possible. Leisurely, he grabs the shampoo bottle and squirts some into his palm, then lifts his hands to massage it into his greasy hair. He scrubs at his scalp and winces as his fingers pull at cuts he didn’t even know were there, and realizes there’s a fairly sizable bump at the back of his skull that sends pain lancing through his head when his fingers graze over it. Castiel avoids that spot and finishes up, then turns the faucet back on and ducks his head underneath it to rinse his hair out.

After the work is done, Castiel sits back so the water is up to his neck, careful to keep his stitched shoulder out of the water, and closes his eyes again, promising himself it’ll only be for five more minutes. A certain drowsy contentment has settled over him and he welcomes it, indulging just for a bit longer and letting his head list to the side. The water is cooling around him but he doesn’t mind; he’s so comfortable it will take awhile before he’s willing to work up the energy and will to get out. His mind starts drifting and unsurprisingly, he finds himself thinking of Dean. He thinks of Dean’s smile, of the way Dean’s sunshine-leather-pine scent was a balm to the fear the alpha from the store had caused. He thinks of Dean’s freckled cheeks as he blushed in the men’s underwear section, thinks of the thrill that ran through him and the warmth that expanded to fill his chest whenever Dean would squeeze his shoulder or pat his arm, voice rumbling as he encouraged and reassured him. His consciousness starts to ebb and his thoughts wander to places he wouldn’t let them when fully awake. Castiel imagines Dean taking his hand in his own, imagines him drawing his fingers over Castiel’s cheek, and he craves it on some visceral level that he wouldn’t acknowledge before, just like he refused to acknowledge that he liked how the nurses thought Dean was his…. An alternate reality he’d never desired before unfolds behind his eyelids, one where he bears Dean’s mating mark at the nape of his neck, where Dean’s hands are on his bare hips, Dean’s name on his lips and the alpha’s— _his_ alpha’s—scent on his skin. On the verge of unconsciousness, on that fragile ledge in between, Castiel lets the thoughts that have been buried in the back of his mind rise to the surface and play out as they want, even if it’s just for a moment. 

A moment turns into something longer and he slips off the edge and into the softly beckoning darkness of sleep.


	7. In with the New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by and written for Astrophilla <3

***

 

In the past five days, everything in Dean’s life has turned a complete one-eighty, and the weirdest part? He actually kinda _likes_ the change, even though a lot of it was fucking terrifying, and confusing as hell, and makes him feel and think in ways he’s completely unused to. Before the night when... well, y’know, Dean’s life had been a monotonous, uneventful pattern he hadn’t even realized he despised until Cas came into the picture and shook it all up. There used to be little variation in each day; he spent morning to late afternoon at the shop, and when he got off work, he’d either go home and make himself dinner then retire to the couch until he got too tired to stay up, or more commonly he’d head to Harvelle’s and have a few drinks and end up going home with some curvy, faceless beta. While Dean loves working at the shop, he’s only realizing now that Cas has put a halt to this pattern that he’s been _lonely._ He sees Bobby, Benny, and Charlie at work and enjoys their company as much as ever, but outside of that, Dean has come to understand just how alone he really is. 

When Sam left for Stanford, he’d taken with him the most vital part of Dean’s life. Sam was Dean’s whole world, his best friend, his baby brother, his responsibility and the one person who had always been there to make life worth living no matter how shitty it got. Sam’s absence was a gaping hole in Dean’s chest and he’d scrambled to fill it with as much alcohol as he could consume, and pretty betas more than willing to sleep with an alpha like Dean. In the absence of Sam’s company, Dean didn’t really have anyone with whom he was near as close to turn to; all of his friends just weren’t the same as having his kid brother around. He’d dodged all the shitty feelings that came with it with sex and whiskey, getting drunk at Harvelle’s after work more often than not, finding himself waking up in a bed he’d never been in before with someone whose name he probably never even bothered to find out beside him. His life had been like that for years, the pattern repeating until he forgot that he was empty inside, until that hollowness became a part of him and he no longer thought anything was missing. Through all that alcohol-and-sex-fueled repression of any unwelcome emotions, Dean convinced himself that his life was fulfilling, that he enjoyed getting off with strangers and drinking himself into oblivion, that it was all the companionship he needed.

It was only on the really bad nights when he’d forgo those things that he could feel the self-hatred and loneliness vibrating like a live wire inside him. That loathing and emptiness would show up in his eyes when he’d look in the mirror, sober and at home alone, and it shook him to his foundations. Those few nights Dean was forced to acknowledge the truth. His instincts were a testament to that fact, the turmoil pressing at him from the inside out. The alpha in him, not just the physical part that he could more easily write off, that other alpha part of him that wanted _more_ yearned for what he could never have. He wanted a mate, yet the very idea of him ever having one was ridiculous. He had no interest in omegas, ignored the few desperate unmated ones he encountered at bars. He instead focused on the betas, with whom he could sleep with and be in complete control of himself, in control of that pining part of him that longed intensely for an omega mate—a mate that didn’t exist. Dean was a professional at suppressing that aspect of his alpha; any feelings or instincts involving the word _mate_ were shoved down deep inside him and ignored, and thus, so were omegas. He wasn’t going to go out and search for something he knew he could never have. It was in his bones to remain unattached to the people in his life whom he took to bed, and there was no easier way to maintain that than to sleep only with betas. With them, the instinct to mate in all aspects—physical, emotional, spiritual—was nearly nonexistent, and that’s how he needed it.

Only once had he slept with an omega, when he was younger and hadn’t yet learned how to keep his alpha instincts at bay and recognize them for what they were: dangerous. It had put an absolute stop to his involvement with the sex, had kickstarted his avoiding them in all situations that exceeded casual. It had been the least satisfying, fulfilling sex he had ever had in his entire life. He’d allowed himself to get drunk on the omega’s scent of desire and had given himself over to his physical alpha want, and taken her to bed. She had been completely gone on him, begging him to mate her, knot her, breed her, but all he could focus on was the fact that while his body wanted what she did, _he_ absolutely did not. He was well aware that it was all a biological lie, to the point where he had to stop in the middle of it, nauseated by an overwhelming amount of disgust that not even an ungodly amount of whiskey could cover up. No matter how good it had felt, being able to give into his instincts, he himself, separated from the alpha part of him, had hated it, and hated himself for doing it. Since then he’s avoided taking omegas to bed like the plague, ignoring them completely while drinking at Harvelle’s. From then on, interactions with omegas in Dean’s life have been scarce, and he knew that it was definitely for the best. 

But then Cas came into the picture, and there went Dean’s simple omega-free philosophy. He’s not sure at what point he threw all of his long-held, carefully constructed rules about attachment out the window for Castiel, but he’s definitely gone and done it now. And goddamn, his life has been the polar opposite of what it was for the past couple years in these past few days because of it. It’s like Cas coming into his life ripped away whatever delusions he had blocking him from seeing the reality of his life, in a way similar to, yet completely different from what abstaining from drink in favor of introspective reflection at home did. The reality of Dean’s life is that he has been really fucking lonely and every way he’s dealt with it is so unhealthy that he hates himself for it. Dean partly blames Cas for making him acknowledge this just by being here, but the stronger, more overwhelming side of himself is glad the omega is here. Yeah, Dean’s life was lacking and shitty, but since… _that_ night, Dean hasn’t been drinking. He hasn’t slept with anyone, and he hasn’t felt the need to. Hell, he’s even been fucking reflective, thinking about thinking and feelings and all that terrifying shit he’s never failed to balk at, and that’s because of Cas. Sure, he’s not going to be doing any of his usual go-to activities because he has an injured person to take care of, but even beyond that, Dean is acknowledging for once the actuality of his life, and just how much he can’t stand it. This is the first time it hasn’t been out of self-loathing, though, and that’s why he’s not currently searching for the bottle of Jack Daniel’s he keeps in the back of the cupboard. Dean’s recognition of how unhappy he is with his life and how it’s turned out this way comes from spending time with Cas—it comes from something _good_. It’s making Dean question everything, but instead of running away to some beta’s bed with his mind clouded from intoxication, he’s accepting it for what it is.

As horrifically chick-flick as it sounds, Cas makes Dean _happy_. The guy makes him forget about his loneliness without the conventional cures. It’s not at all like how he’d made Dean happy in high school by being such a good friend to Sam; this is entirely because of how he makes Dean himself feel. It’s ridiculous, how Cas can talk about his job and all its anecdotes while drowsy from drugs and Dean could listen attentively for however long he can go on for. Cas’ smile is too friggin’ adorable for his own good, and it shouldn’t make Dean automatically feel lighter, like some ever-present weight locked around his chest loosens a little more with each one. Dean shouldn’t make it his own personal mission to make Cas laugh as many times as possible, yet there he finds himself, making stupid jokes in hopes of coaxing out the quiet, amused snickers from the guy. And heaven forbid the effect Cas’ eyes have on him. Dean’s train of thought never fails to come to a screeching halt when the omega turns his deep gaze on him, one that undoubtedly sees through him, to his core. It really is insane, and Dean doesn’t understand how or why. All he knows is that it’s making him realize that he hates everything about the pattern to his life before Cas came into the picture. It’s unsettling as fuck, too, because Dean is without a doubt the last person he’d expect to ever take a step back and think about things like this. Stranger yet, is how Cas had somehow managed to change his mind about avoiding involvement with omegas after that terrible one-night stand, only Dean isn’t about to go to the nearest bar and find a needy omega vying for attention. Far from it, in fact; instead of his rule going out the window, it seems that Cas has somehow made himself the exception.

The effect Cas has on him is very weird, and also kind of amazing. No one, omega or otherwise, has been able to draw all of Dean’s alpha instincts back to the surface, considering just how deeply buried they had been. Hell if he knows how or why, but Cas brings out all of his alpha instincts—repressed or otherwise—and it has him torn. His gut instinct is to fight and shove them back where they came from as fast as possible, but he also finds himself inexplicably desiring them, longing to embrace parts of himself he hadn’t even considered after that one night stand years ago. Dean had felt the desire to take care of him on a level deeper than he would anyone else when he’d been watching over Cas in the hospital, making sure he took his medication and drank plenty of water and was comfortable. He’d felt unfamiliar emotions skyrocket from the moment he’d gathered Cas in his arms and rushed him to the hospital and still feels them now, hoping the guy isn’t having any problems taking his bath, as he bends over the mattress, fitting the sheets over Cas’ newly claimed bed. Even more irrational was the need to protect and defend him unnecessarily and inexcusably from the alpha staff at the hospital, and the feeling had increased ten fold when he felt Cas was actually threatened at the store. Jealousy had sparked in his chest upon seeing that knothead talking to his omega—fuck, not _his_ , how many goddamn times is he going to have to remind himself of that—but it was quickly replaced by the shockingly vicious, feral urge Dean had to maim the alpha who was threatening Cas. Only now Dean feels slightly appalled at just how much he wanted to beat the living shit out of the guy, until he was crumpled on the ground and his blood was smeared over Dean’s knuckles. He’s actually kinda surprised by his restraint; he’d been nearly shaking with rage, muscles quivering in anticipation of throttling the dickbag who dared try and harass his—mother fuck. 

Dean shakes his head hard, as if to clear his head and stop the anger he was working himself back into just thinking of the incident. He really, really needs to get a grip on himself, and especially on this possessive _mine_ instinct that absolutely refuses to be locked away. Cas is not his, not his omega or his mate or anything deranged like that and it would be really nice if his fucking instincts would get with the program. It’s like he never even had the choice to deny himself interacting with Cas, despite his tenacious avoidance of all unmated omegas past the occasional small talk. The second he’d inhaled the sugary, luscious scent, floral and heavenly on Cas’ skin, he knew he didn’t have a chance to just leave Cas at the hospital after he’d woken up and all was said and done. It had inspired within him some visceral reaction that struck his very core in a way no omega’s scent ever had. Even if it hadn’t, or if he hadn’t known Cas from high school either, Dean doubts he would have been able to stay away and keep his alpha instincts restrained. The tight reign on them had has all but dissolved upon his sticking around, whether it be that ambrosial scent that’s honest to God better than anything in the entire world, or that strangely endearing charm he has, pulling more smiles out of Dean and making him crave his company like he’s never craved anyone’s before, Dean knows that he ain’t got a snowball’s chance in Hell at brushing Cas aside like he had anyone else. 

He’s trying really damn hard to not be worried about this change. It feels oddly enough like the best fucking thing to happen to him in a long time, getting to spend so much time with someone he’s quickly come to consider a friend and feel an actual genuine connection with him, and that’s exactly what terrifies him. It’s unearthing all of his damned alpha instincts, and while he wants to at least try and accept them and take them as a good thing, since they’ve never felt like this, felt this _good_ and _right_ , he’s afraid he can’t. He’s Dean Winchester, since when does he ever get good things in his life? What are the chances his shitty luck is actually allowing him a reprieve? Slim to none, he’s sure of it. He buried those instincts because they only led him to want what he couldn’t have, and fucked him up in the process. He’s not even going to let his thoughts wander down that road, to the arousal he’d felt smelling Cas in heat, scent unmarred by suppressants, or to how the hospital staff had called him Cas’ mate, how it had sent something hot and wanting, in worryingly more than just a sexual way, flaring to life inside him. That’s an impossible path for Dean. He’s a train wreck on the inside, so far from being in any position to think about these things it’s almost funny, except it’s not. Dean halts those thoughts in their path, because he’s already had enough of them, and even if they weren’t a problem, Cas probably feels nothing even remotely like this for him. He’s only here because he has nowhere to go and because Dean fucking well owes him for _running him over with his car_. It’s probably better that way, that he doesn’t delude himself into thinking that he and Cas will ever be like _that_ , because with all these feelings and instincts that Cas has awakened in him, Dean’s fairly terrified that he’s going to fuck this up. 

All this is making him exhausted and stressed out. He hates thinking about this shit, it only adds to the constant sense of impending doom surrounding his emotional state, and that’s the last thing he needs. Dean lets out a long breath, focusing solely on arranging the thick navy blue comforter on the bed, lining up the sides and folding the top over neatly. A quick glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand tells him he probably only has a couple more minutes at most before Cas is bound to be done with his bath—he’s been in there for ages. Dean wants to have everything made up and ready for when he comes out, so he can get some rest if he wants to and doesn’t feel the need to help him finish it up. And yeah, if he could get a grip on his out of control feelings, that would be great too. The last thing Cas needs right now is his room reeking of Dean’s stupid angsty alpha scent. He rolls his eyes as he stuffs two pillows into the pillow cases and sets them propped up against the headboard. A wary concern starts to expand to fill his chest as he bustles around the room, straightening things up and waiting for Cas to come out. He hasn’t heard any sounds of movement and it’s been long enough that his overactive imagination is already conjuring up worst-case scenarios to play through. Dean’s generally a relaxed person, but for some reason, obsessing about Cas’ well-being is more than natural, and has him high strung whenever he suspects there could be danger.

That settles it—if Cas’ silence is a sign he’s in danger, then Dean sure as hell isn’t just going to wander around idly when every sense he has is demanding he get to the man. Dean strides over to the bathroom door and knocks on it loudly to be heard over the droning sound of the bathroom fan. “Cas? You alright, buddy?” he calls, straining to hear any response. Nothing. His heart rate hitches with worry and he knocks louder, calling Cas’ name again while fighting the urge to break down the door and see for himself that his omega is fine. He’s so focused on trying to scent the air for distressed omega that he doesn’t even bother scolding himself for slipping up and allowing that stupidly possessive instinct to call Cas his. Cas isn’t answering and there aren’t any sounds of movement. Dean’s getting more anxious by the second, itching to burst in and do _something_ that isn’t knocking on the door and standing here like a complete idiot. What if Cas can’t call back? The thought has Dean acting before he can even process it. “Cas? I’m coming in, so, uh, yeah,” Dean announces, then tries the doorknob. It’s unlocked, and Dean throws it out of the way and steps into the room, eyes immediately falling on Cas as fear bolts through him. “Cas!” The omega is slumped over in the bathtub, his face resting on the edge of the tub while the rest of his body but for his injured leg and one arm is submerged. His eyes are shut and he’s unresponsive, leading Dean to realize with a simultaneous wave of relief and worry that he’s just asleep and hasn’t _drowned._ Mother of fuck, if his omega drowned while he was just in the other room….

Dean drops to his knees beside the tub and reaches out to grip Cas’ shoulders, firm but careful of the stitched-shut wounds there. “Cas, Cas, wake up, buddy,” Dean commands, wishing his voice sounded gentler, less rough and upset. The residual fear makes him sound much angrier than he is, which is not at all. The bathwater is cold and _protectcareforprovide_ hits him like a tsunami wave as he realizes Cas is probably freezing if he’s just been laying here, submerged in this cold as fuck bathwater. Not to mention he’s in absolutely no condition for this; his heat and injuries both make him extremely vulnerable to hypothermia. “Cas, c’mon, wake up,” Dean lowers his voice, struggling to get a grip on himself and not lose his shit—he’s got his omega to take care of and he needs to focus on that. He pulls the plug and the bathwater starts draining, and while it does, Dean reaches for one of the bath towels and tries to get a firmer hold on the omega. His skin is icy cold and that in itself is enough to make Dean almost lose it, his instincts screaming at him to comfort and protect while the rest of him is on the same page, only more focused on what it’s going to take to do so rather than just running with the spiking emotions. When he turns back from grabbing the towel, Cas is blinking his eyes open, sleepy blue squinting up at him in confusion.   
“Dean?” Cas mumbles, struggling to keep his eyes open as Dean cocoons Cas with the bath towels, then hurriedly wraps his arm around the omega’s shoulders, the other sliding under his knees. Every fiber of his being is in a worried frenzy, unable to do anything but rush to get Cas to the safety and warmth of bed, desperate to get his temperature back up. It’s all he can focus on as he lifts Cas in his arms and gathers him close to his chest, wanting him as close to the furnace-like heat of his body as possible, hoping that it will seep into the omega and warm him, chase away the chill lingering on his skin.

Cas clutches on to him as Dean nearly jogs into the bedroom, probably more than a little startled at Dean’s desperate behavior. He doesn’t say anything as he pulls back the blankets and gently deposits Cas between the sheets, towels and all, and pulls the comforter up to his chin. It’s only then, when he can see Cas safe and bundled up in bed, out of that freezing water and away from the danger it posed to his health, that he can calm down, both him and the alpha in him settling. Cas tries to prop himself up against the headboard and Dean helps him, making sure the blankets are tucked around him in his new sitting up position. Without consciously choosing to do so, Dean smooths Cas’ wet, disheveled hair with his hand, making a side note to go grab another towel to dry of Cas’ hair when he gets the chance. Cas is looking up at him apologetically, those blue eyes doing wonders to slow Dean’s rapid heartbeat, spreading a peaceful, reassuring warmth through him. Cas is okay, everything is fine. Dean can think straight now, can breathe and let the tension drain out of his shoulders with some effort.   
“I’m sorry for falling asleep,” Castiel apologizes and Dean offers him a smile, small but sincere. He’s so glad that Cas is okay he has absolutely no room for being upset, even if he wanted to be.

“It’s okay, just next time, you’re not getting in that bath if you’re drowsy from the meds, or actually, if you’re tired at all.” Dean can’t keep his hands from petting Cas’ hair or patting his shoulder, like they _need_ to continue to comfort him, when it’s Dean who’s the one all riled up. Cas glances at his hand on his shoulder and Dean retracts it, looking at the ground as it sinks in just how crazy he must look. Way to keep your cool, Winchester. He must’ve freaked Cas out, waking him up and then hauling him to bed without any explanation or giving him a second to understand what’s going on after just waking him. Cas doesn’t look freaked out, though. He just has a soft smile on his chapped lips, and hell if Dean is even going to try and figure out why it’s there; he’s just glad that Cas seems to be fine and that he’s not yelling at Dean for what would scare a normal person. Especially if he smells every bit as upset as he was earlier, that definitely wouldn't have been pleasant. “You okay? Are you getting warm?” Dean asks, sitting on the edge of Cas’ bed and looking anywhere but at those searching azure eyes.  
“I’m fine, Dean, really,” Cas promises. The silence is weird but Dean isn’t sure how. It’s not awkward, but it feels like there’s something there, something unspoken between them, and all he can do is feel stupid for not handling everything more calmly, being more in control. It doesn’t matter, though. Cas is okay, and he doesn’t seem disturbed by Dean’s behavior. Whatever this thing is hanging in the air between them, it only intensifies when Dean finally makes eye contact. Cas’ eyes are too bright, like that line where the ocean meets the sky on a summer day. Dean can’t find it in himself to look away, holding his gaze and feeling something shift behind his sternum.

“Could I have my pajamas?” Cas asks, finally breaking the silence. Dean nods rapidly.   
“Yeah, of course.” He stands up and heads into the bathroom to grab another towel from under the sink, and Cas’ neat stack of folded pajamas left on the counter. He sets them on the bed next to Cas, unsure of what to do at this point. Does Cas need his help? Should he ask? Should he leave the room and give him some privacy? “Do you want something warm to drink?”   
“Sure, I’d love some tea,” Cas smiles at him and his stupid fucking heart stutters like he’s a character in some poorly written romance novel. “I can handle getting dressed on my own, before you ask.” Cas’ eyes crinkle at the corners and Dean laughs at Cas’ subtle humor. He’s actually glad Cas told him without him feeling like an overbearing jerk who doesn’t think Cas can help himself for asking, and like an inconsiderate asshole for not asking.   
“Right, I’ll go make you some. Shout if you need me,” Dean calls as he heads out of the room.

Once outside in the hall with the bedroom door shut, Dean runs a hand over his face and releases a deep breath. Yeah, things are definitely all different now. 

Remembering the way Cas’ smile lit him up from the inside out, he decides different isn’t always a bad thing.


	8. Biting the Bullet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by and written for Astrophilla <3

Castiel wakes up lying in a pool of slick and sweat, every part of him on fire as he sticks to the sheets. His return to consciousness is disorienting, all at once the ache and burn of his injuries, paired with an even stronger fervish pain radiating out from his core. His injuries are dull in comparison to the fire licking through him, smoldering in his groin, the sensation that of what he imagines it would feel like to be flung out of a three story building and land on rocks. It’s excruciating, unlike anything he’s experienced before. A juxtaposition of nausea and blinding arousal after being hit by a semi-truck, all at once, and he has absolutely no idea what to do. His thoughts are clouded by sensation and acute _need_. The pain is only second to the desperation that has him burning up, all-consuming and torturous. He’s drenched, feels sweat matting his hair to his head, and his pants are soaked in slick, like the sheets beneath him. His skin is ultra sensitive, the blankets scratchy and rough on his feverish flesh, the material of the sweats and cast equally as uncomfortable and only serving to lock in the hellish heat, baking him alive. Worst of all and without a doubt the most pressing is his agonizing erection, throbbing and aching, trapped beneath the restraining fabric of his itchy boxers. He acts without thinking, only following the desperate need to get it all off of him, to cool down, to free his burning cock and do anything to satisfy that ardent need. 

He kicks the blankets off with his good leg, struggling weakly against them until they’re shoved off the bed. His chest heaves, heart pounding so hard he hears the blood rushing in his ears, paired with the labored sound of his heavy, too-fast breathing. Castiel hardly even feels the flash of sharp pain in his stitched shoulder as he bends to yank his sweats and boxers down, squirming and lifting his hips in order to get them over his ass. They’re caught around his ankles and he feels the heat ratchet up what feels like several hundred degrees in his struggle to get them all the way off, his body aching and burning from the effort and ever-escalating need. Slick starts to _pour_ out of him, his hole clenching and unclenching as the hot, thick substance gushes down the backs of his thighs, smearing across the tender skin and soaking into the mattress. He bites his lip so hard he can taste blood as he rucks his shirt up to his chin, his cock heavy and hard against his stomach. His balls are too tight and his cock throbs with need, the head leaking precome on his belly. Castiel blinks beaded sweat out of his eyes, vision adjusting to the darkness of the room around him as he reaches down and wraps his hand around himself, starting a fast, wild pace, the need for relief so strong he can hardly even think. He writhes uncomfortably as the slick pools between his legs, providing all the lubricant he needs as he strokes himself at a brutal pace. It’s not enough, the contact of his hand on his cock, he needs _more_. His fluttering hole is indicator enough; he spreads his legs as wide as they’ll go and reaches down to press an index finger against his entrance. 

Castiel has never touched himself like that before, nor had he ever felt the desire to. Besides for the couple of poor, half-hearted and short-lived attempts at it Balthazar had made to ‘prepare’ him, he has no experience, and what little he does, was not at all enjoyable. Now though, there’s nothing he wants more than to have his hole stretched tight, and his fingers are looking like the best option. A single digit slips in without any resistance from the ring of muscle whatsoever, a testament to just how desperately his body wants to be filled. The pillows he has his face buried in stifle the loud groan that follows him quickly adding two more, an astonishing amount of slick saturating the mattress beneath him. He’s caught between thrusting against the sheets, the friction maddening and painful against his leaking erection, and pressing his hips back, trying to get his fingers as deep inside himself as possible. He’s dizzy from the feeling of it all, his hole clenching tight as he adds in a fourth finger. He can’t get enough; everything is overwhelming in the most frustrating, fruitless way. Still, all it takes is one accidental graze over his prostate—or at least that’s what he thinks it is, he’s never felt it or gotten a reaction like this before—and he’s coming harder than he ever has, the tension that had been building in his groin crescendoing and sending every muscle in his body clenching as the orgasm wracks through him. He cries out into the pillows, heat washing over him blistering and his heart pounding so hard he fears it may give out, and then just like that, all the tension leaves him. His body goes loose and limp as he retracts his fingers, spent dick pinned uncomfortably beneath him, and rolls onto his back, the cooling slick against his bare skin doing nothing to ease the fever. It’s only gotten worse, and now that his head is clearing from the orgasm, the pain and heat is only increasing. He knows he doesn’t have long before the arousal returns, ten times worse than it just was.

Castiel’s breathing slowly begins to even out as he lays there, trapped inside a coal stove. The sheets are so rough and itchy against his hyper-sensitive skin; he can feel every fiber of the cloth. His head spins as he comes back to himself, clenching his teeth and shutting his eyes tight as he tries to get a grip, to think rationally. This must be what heat is like, unrestrained by suppressors. It’s _unbearable_. How do people handle it? Castiel exhales a long, shaky breath, his hole quivering as it releases another thick pulse of slick, his cock starting to harden again. He doesn’t know how long he’s been lying there since he orgasmed, but it definitely feels too soon. The want is indeed far stronger this time, and more focused, his need more acute. He wants—no, he _needs_ —an alpha’s knot to fill him. His brain eagerly supplies the image for him, without his consent drawing up memories of Dean’s face, his pupils blown wide that day he’d smelled Castiel’s slick at the hospital, calling back the scent of Dean’s arousal. _Oh_. His body practically spasms with need, cock throbbing with vengeance, and he flips over to rut desperately against the mattress, fumbling for his cock and straining to reach back, fingers searching for his entrance. He doesn’t want just any alpha’s knot, he wants Dean’s, and now his mind is running wild with ideas, conjuring up imaginary scenes where Dean is pounding into him from behind, or where he’s spread out beneath him, Dean’s knot tugging at his swollen rim, or—Castiel orgasms so hard he blacks out for a moment, coming back to himself with semen painted over his chest, slick now trickling languidly out of his hole. He’s roasting alive, the pain pressing at him from all sides, and yet all he can feel is overwhelming guilt. 

He feels horrible for thinking of Dean like that, shame welling up inside him. It’s wrong, he knows that—Dean is his _friend_ , not his alpha, not his mate, not someone he can just fantasize about while jacking off and fingering himself. He’s disgusted with himself for disrespecting Dean like that. No matter how much his body thought it was a fantastic idea at the time, he knows that it isn’t real, that Dean would no doubt be just as disgusted with him as he is now if he had known. The only thing that quells that guilt, if only a little, is the fact that he didn’t consciously make the decision to, that it was his heat-crazed subconscious. He isn’t going to let it happen again, and that’s what matters. Castiel slowly sits up, injuries burning in protest, and turns on the lamp, squinting and blinking until his eyes adjust. He’s made an absolute mess of the bed, the blankets kicked off, the sheets drenched in slick and covered in come, tangled around his legs. He sighs heavily, wincing as his ribs ache at the deep breath, and tries to decide how to proceed. He’s got to act quickly with whatever he chooses, because the next wave of his heat will render him unable to do anything but give into it, unable to control himself. He looks at the clock on the nightstand, making note that it’s almost three in the morning, but something else catches his attention. A big glass of water sits next to the alarm clock, and the four familiar pain killer and suppressor pills lie on a napkin next to it. A flood of warmth far different from the hellish heat he’s been feeling since he woke up spills through his chest. Dean left these for him after he fell asleep, and Castiel’s heart expands two sizes at the caring gesture. He hurries to swallow down the pills and drain the glass, then turns the light off and flops back down. 

He falls asleep within minutes, the pain and heat subdued and granting him blissful unconsciousness, lips still forming a half smile at Dean’s thoughtful provision. 

***

When Castiel cracks his eyes open, head clouded with drowsiness and the fog of painkillers and suppressors, it’s to sunlight pouring in through the slats of the blinds. Castiel rolls onto his back, eyes slipping shut as he reaches for unconsciousness, definitely not yet ready to face the day. The sun is staining his eyelids red and he huffs, turning onto his other side and facing the door, the light now sufficiently blocked by his back and no longer shining directly into his eyes. He’s in that pleasant half-conscious state between waking up and being asleep and he’s opting for the latter, chasing the tendrils of darkness that are just out of reach. The gears in his brain shift slowly when he hears the quiet knock on the bedroom door, then the sound of the doorknob turning and then there is Dean, stepping inside the room, a bottle of Gatorade in one hand and a plate of something steaming and sugary smelling in the other. Castiel is hit with the overwhelming smell of alpha, of _Dean_ , fragrant pine and spilling sunshine and melting honey and sun-warmed leather. The biofeedback is going insane, sending him into a blissful daze, the scent of his alpha entrancing him while both soothing and igniting him from deep within. He barely processes Dean freezing in his tracks, eyes blowing wide as he sucks in a sharp, audible breath. Castiel winces at the too-loud sound of things hitting the the ground, Dean dropping everything in his hands all at once. 

With the next blink, Dean is right there, right on top of him, a possessive growl rumbling from deep within his chest as he straddles Castiel’s hips tightly. His face is buried in the crook of Castiel’s neck and the alpha is near hyperventilating, his scent rapidly morphing and intensifying, the thick woodsy musk sending all kinds of signals to Castiel’s brain. His body melts beneath the alpha, who is holding onto him tight enough to send a dull ache through his ribs, his lips and nose against Castiel’s neck as he draws in deep breaths, pheromones flooding from him and finally pulling Castiel out of the med-induced haze into the fullness of reality. Reality is Dean is _on_ him, his alpha is right here, his alpha smells like ambrosia and his alpha is scenting him like his life depends on it. His omega instincts are skyrocketing, responding in earnest and urging him to bare his neck, to cling to him, to scent his alpha back, but _he_ knows this isn’t right, not now, not like this, not with both of them completely overwhelmed and blinded by their biology. “Dean,” Castiel croaks, head spinning as he fights tooth and nail the instincts that are urging him to do a million different things that he knows he can’t. That one word has Dean’s head snapping up, his blown-wide pupils narrowing as he comes back to himself, the look of euphoria disappearing in exchange for one of complete horror.

“ _Fuck!_ Oh shit, fuck, I’m so fucking sorry, Cas--” Dean jumps back from Castiel like he’s been tasered, falling over the edge of the bed and landing in a heap on the floor. He’s quick to get to his feet and nearly sprints from the room, an endless string of apologies thrown over his shoulder as he disappears from sight. Castiel stares after him in shock, guilt rising in the pit of his stomach. Damn his heat, damn his omega instincts, damn them all. They’re only making things so much harder on Dean, leaving them both with little control over themselves. He knows that this isn’t his fault, in the back of his mind, and he knows that it isn’t Dean’s, either. It’s their biology reacting to each other, and neither of them can do much to avoid it except flee, just as Dean did. Castiel draws in as deep a breath as his ribs permit, attempting to sit up and figure out how to proceed. A quick glance around himself brings memories of last night rushing back, the bed blatantly telling of everything that took place, with the tangled mess of sheets covered in dried come and slick, Castiel unclothed and covered in it as well, and he can only imagine the scents of sex, heat, and pheromones that must be heavy in the air. No wonder Dean reacted the way he did; Castiel couldn’t have possibly put him in a more compromising situation. Anyone else would no doubt have taken him right then and there, yet all Dean did was scent him and then scramble off, running as soon as he realized what was going on. He owes Dean a massive apology, for all of this. 

He’d sworn to himself that he wouldn’t make Dean’s life harder by staying with him, that he wouldn’t let his instincts get in the way. He needs to fix this. Summoning up his strength, Castiel swings legs over the edge of the mattress and stands, bracing himself with a hand planted on the nightstand for support. His crutches are propped up against the wall right next to it, and he reaches for them, stumbling only a little as he positions them under each arm and crutches to retrieve a clean pair of sweats from his bag. Putting them on is more of a task than he expected, but after a considerable amount of work, the sweats are on and he decides he’s clothed enough to chase after Dean and apologize. “Dean?” Castiel calls, gingerly stepping into the hall and looking for the alpha. Both the thick, pungent scent of unhappy alpha, spicy and unsettling, and the sounds of running water make it easy for Castiel to locate him. He follows the hall down to the bathroom at the end of it, where Dean has the light on and is running him a bath. The bathroom reeks of that upsetting scent when Castiel steps inside, and Dean immediately stands from where he was kneeling by the tub, avoiding eye contact as he busies himself with arranging the towels on the rack. His shoulders are tense, the scent clogging the air at odds with the too-big, fake smile Dean has plastered across his face. “Yeah?” Dean answers, voice too chipper, too false. It sends a distinct sort of sick, wrong feeling curling at the base of Castiel’s spine, and he swallows hard. 

“I’m sorry for the state of the room, and for the smell, and—” Dean waves him off before he can finish, finally meeting his eyes with narrowed jade ones, trying too hard to come across as blithe and cheerful. It doesn’t touch his eyes.   
“Don’t worry ‘bout it. Go ahead, I’ve got the bath all ready.” Castiel has to restrain the urge to cringe at the complete lack of genuity in the alpha’s voice, the carefully composed, artificial good mood leaving stones in the pit of Castiel’s stomach. He hates it, hates this false, happy Dean that’s all wrong, that’s so _not him_ it’s painful, makes Castiel feel he’s done something really wrong.   
“Thank you,” he says softly as Dean hurries out of the bathroom, leaving behind Castiel’s suitcase and the heavy scent of distressed alpha. Castiel takes a quick bath this time, carefully and efficiently scrubbing the dried slick and come from his skin while avoiding his injuries, using plenty of soap to get rid of the scent of sex and heat. He’s wide awake and alert this time, no danger of falling asleep present, seeing as he doesn’t give himself time to relax into the hot water. When he’s finished, he begins the arduous process of getting out and drying himself off, dressing in sweatpants, and a white t-shirt, followed by his favorite oversized navy blue sweater. He runs his fingers through his wet hair in a futile attempt to get his bedhead to lie flat, then drains the tub and fixes the bathroom up so it’s once again neat and tidy. With that done, he sidles up with his crutches and pads back to the bedroom to tackle the mess he knows is waiting for him, and then to try and figure out what he’s going to do to fix things between him and Dean. 

He wonders if he got the wrong room for a second, but a glance around confirms that this is in fact his borrowed room. Only it’s completely clean, not a single trace of last night lingering. His bed is pristine and made up, with new sheets and a new white comforter. The pillows are arranged and fluffed at the headboard, each in a new pillow case. It looks even cleaner that it was when he first got here, and another wave of guilt washes through him when he realizes Dean did all this. Dean stripped his bed of the dirty sheets, and he can only imagine that it was a less than enjoyable experience. It must’ve been a lot of work, considering the mess Castiel had made of the bed. The need to fix whatever weird thing he’d created between Dean and himself only grows; even though he’s ruined Dean’s morning and made him uncomfortable in his own home, Dean still is taking care of him, drawing him a bath and making up his bed with clean sheets and blankets. He needs to fix what he’s done, and soon, because it feels deeply wrong for things to be like this between him. He’d already tried to apologize, and Dean had waved him off. He can either try again, or wait until Dean is ready to talk about what happened. The latter is looking more likely; he’s just got to wait until Dean is ready. He can do that, even if Dean’s falsely cheerful demeanor is far harder to bear than it should be. 

Castiel heads down the stairs, a process that he finds nearly impossible. He has to hold his crutches on his lap and sit on each stair, slowly making his way down that way. By the time he reaches the bottom, he’s exhausted and looking forward to dropping into the nearest chair available. “Cas? Oh shit, I’m sorry, I should’ve helped you down,” Dean apologizes, walking over to him from the kitchen. His scent still smells dark and stormy with discontent, his face still contorted into the painfully forced mask of happiness, though concern is creeping in on both accounts. Castiel gives him a small smile to show he’s fine, getting to his feet and adjusting his grip on the crutches.   
“I’m fine, really.” He clears his throat, hating the awkwardness between them, how there’s so much he wants to say but can’t, not with Dean closed off like this. Dean nods, walking with him to the kitchen. Castiel vaguely notes how he doesn’t guide him there with an arm around his shoulders to support him like usual; instead, he’s walking a good couple feet away, as if making sure to maintain a careful distance between them. Something twinges in Castiel’s chest and his tongue feels heavy with another apology he wants so badly to say, anything to get Dean acting like himself again. It’s hard to tell if Dean is upset with him or upset at himself; either way, neither of them are to blame for what happened. He knows that it was a volatile situation and that their instincts took control, which means it wasn’t _them_. If only Dean could realize this, then maybe he’d snap out of it, and they could talk or whatever they have to do to work it out. 

“Breakfast is on the table,” Dean announces, and Castiel’s stomach growls at the sight of a plate full of eggs, bacon, and cinnamon rolls sitting next to a glass of orange juice. It looks wonderful, and the smell reminds him of just how hungry he is. He thanks Dean and takes a seat, waiting for Dean to get his food and eat beside him. Only he doesn’t. The alpha is shrugging into his leather jacket, grabbing his keys from the counter and glancing over with that same look molding his face. “I’ve gotta go pick up Sam from the airport, d’ya think you’ll be okay here for a bit?” Castiel nods, frowning internally.   
“I’ve got it, have a nice drive,” he replies, lifting a forkful of eggs to his mouth. They’re good, and chewing them prevents him from giving into the mounting need to say _something_.   
“Call me if you need me, my number’s on the fridge,” Dean calls over his shoulder before heading out into the garage, the door shutting welcoming in the following silence. Castiel sighs heavily, taking the pills Dean set next to the glass with a mouthful of juice. He finishes eating and then rinses his dishes and puts them in the dishwasher before hobbling over to the couch. He wishes he had his laptop, but it’s all the way upstairs and he surely isn’t going to be making that journey anytime soon if he can help it. Instead, he turns on the TV and browses through the channels, settling for a show on the History channel about second-gender roles in the late Victorian era. It holds his interest for awhile; he’s intrigued by the custom where omegas were to keep their necks completely covered at all times until they were mated, then they were to keep their neck or nape or wherever the mating bite was exposed to show their status and to whom they belong. It was back when omegas were property of alphas, when they’d had no rights but were treated well, unlike the female alphas of the time. He’s thankfully engrossed enough that he can ignore his thoughts, that is until he hears the garage door open. 

He turns the TV off just as Dean steps inside, followed by the familiar tall form and light beta scent of his old friend. Sam beams when he sees Castiel, and he can’t help but grin back, elated to see him after so long. “Cas!” Sam exclaims, rushing over to him to wrap him up in a careful bearhug, the man taking care not to squeeze his fractured ribs. Castiel buries his face against Sam’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of his friend and welcoming in all the memories that come with it. “I’m so glad you’re here, and that you’re okay!” Sam pulls back to pat his shoulder, and the two take each other in. Sam’s hair is longer than it was before, now nearly brushing his shoulders, and the lines of his face are more pronounced. His scent is the same though, still distinctly Sam, and it reminds him of the only good part of high school. He smiles wider—he’s missed him so much. “Wait till you see the tree Dean and I picked up! We’ve got a lot of decorating to do in the near future,” Sam laughs and Castiel laughs with him. He’s excited for the time he has with his friend ahead of him, but the knowledge that he and Dean still have unfinished business sits behind his sternum like a lead weight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy belated Valentine's Day! You guys are too precious for this world ;) <3


	9. About the Elephant in the Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by and written for Astrophilla <3

***

Castiel winces as he pricks his finger with the needle again, cursing his far from nimble fingers for their clumsiness. He furrows his brow as he reaches for another piece of popcorn, determined to thread this one on without skewering himself in the process. “Need some help?” Sam asks, dropping onto the couch beside him and reaching for the package of needles and thread.   
“That would be great,” Castiel hums his assent, smiling gratefully. Sam’s cheeks are red from the cold, a fine layer of sweat visible on his forehead where his bangs stick to it as he relaxes into the couch, scraping the hair out of his eyes and gets to work threading a needle. Castiel had watched them struggle to get the huge evergreen in the doorway, suppressing his desire to get up and help, knowing his injured body would only make the task more troubling. But now the urge has passed, with the massive Christmas tree inside and upright. Sam is free to give him a hand with the popcorn, while Dean wrestles with the tangle of Christmas lights pulled from the storage bins he’d retrieved from the garage. It’s quite amusing, actually, and probably a considerable part of why he’d pricked himself so many times, continually finding his eyes straying to watch the alpha yank at the jumble of cords and growl some sort of creative expletive.  
“So, Cas, how’s life been? Y’know, before my dumbass brother….” Sam frowns, glancing up at Cas while he grabs a piece of popcorn. “God, I’m so sorry for all of that. I know it’s—” Castiel cuts him off before he can continue; Sam did absolutely nothing wrong, and he doesn’t want to hear an apology when there’s nothing left to be forgiven. 

“Don’t worry,” Castiel smiles, meeting his gaze for a moment before returning to his intense focus on the needle and his stinging fingertips. “I’m not doing badly. It was inconvenient, but it could have been much worse. Thanks to your brother, I’m going quite well.” Sam huffs, but thankfully lets it go. “I’d just gotten a job interview set up, for the twenty-eighth.” Upon Sam’s prompting, he launches into a summary of his life since he graduated, and just like they’d never stopped, the conversation comes easy and cathartic, something warm sitting behind Castiel’s chest as he remembers how much he’d missed this, just how easy it is for him to tell Sam everything, like he had in high school. Sam tells him about Stanford, and his beta fiancee, Jessica. He talks about her with a near reverence to his voice, a broad smile stretching his lips, and Castiel is overcome with happiness. He always knew Sam had great things in store for him, and he knows down to his core how much Sam deserves this. It’s deeply satisfying that he’s getting the life he deserves, after all the strife he went through to get here. “She’s so beautiful, Cas… God. She has these eyes that just… and her laugh…” Sam has that faraway look in his eyes as he talks about her. Castiel listens intently, enjoying Sam’s company as he carefully pierces each piece of popcorn with the needle and threads it on. 

Sam’s going into how heavy and ridiculous his homework load is for one class when Dean pulls Castiel’s attention with his violent struggle to unknot the giant mass of Christmas lights that he’s still tackling. “How the _hell_ did a clusterfuck like this even happen?” Dean seethes, yanking at one cord so hard Castiel is surprised it doesn’t tear. He puts down his finished string of popcorn, carefully setting aside the needle. “Do you need a hand, Dean?” he calls, now Sam’s forced to stop talking over the increasing volume of Dean’s tirade. Dean pauses, his face slipping into the mask Castiel has come to hate ever since it made its first appearance that morning. He smiles too wide, and it doesn’t touch his eyes as he walks over and hand Castiel the tangle of lights. “Thanks, Cas, I really appreciate it,” Dean says, his voice cut and polished to sound saturated with friendliness, like he’s trying to talk to a boss he doesn’t like but needs to be amicable with to get a raise. It’s like cold water running through Castiel’s veins as he forces a smile back and takes the Christmas lights. Sam has stopped his work and is now looking between the two of them with narrowed eyes, and Castiel can almost hear the gears in his brain shifting as he analyzes the two of them. He fights the urge to look away and instead keeps his gaze steady on Dean’s, until the alpha turns back to the bin and starts rooting around inside. The silence that follows feels like it’s choking him, and he fights to maintain a carefully neutral expression, feeling Sam’s eyes are on his face as he begins to loosen the mess of cords. 

For a while, no one says anything, leaving the sickening feeling that comes with Dean’s falsely cheery demeanor to fester inside Castiel as he works his fingers in between the knots. It feels like an eternity of uncomfortable silence passes before Sam stands, walking towards the kitchen. “Dean, do you wanna give me a hand? I’m gonna make some lunch.” Sam calls, and Castiel tries not to take it personally that Sam didn’t bother asking him if he wanted to help. He channels his focus into undoing the ball of Christmas lights, though inwardly, his thoughts are reeling as he becomes even more unnerved by Dean’s behavior. How much longer is this going to last? And what should he do about it? What _can_ he do about it, since Dean already shrugged off his apology and attempt to talk things out? It’s driving him mad, and even worse, he hates to admit that it actually hurts him. Even Dean yelling at him or telling him to leave would feel better than this, the detached, blatantly false pleasantry that taints the air with the pungent scent of upset alpha. Castiel sighs heavily, resisting the urge to bury his face in his hands. Sam and Dean say nothing as they get things out of the fridge and plates from the cupboards, and Castiel can’t stand it—he needs a break, an escape from this tension, just for a few minutes. He heaves himself up onto his crutches and makes his way down the hallway to the nearest bathroom.

Once inside, he splashes his face with cold water and looks at his face in the mirror, bracing himself with his hands on either side of the sink. His skin is slowly beginning to heal, the bruises beginning to yellow and fade, the swelling going down in his lip and eye. It’s still gruesome to look at, especially the stitches standing out against the inflamed, red skin. He closes his eyes, focusing on his breathing, willing his thoughts to stop anxiously orbiting around Dean. This is getting ridiculous. He needs to do something, he knows that; but what exactly he can do that will actually change how Dean’s treating him is a mystery. Castiel pats his face with a towel gently to dry it off, and then steels himself to head back out and endure Dean’s false amiability. When he makes his way back towards the living room, he hears Sam and Dean arguing, their voices audible even from the hallway. “What the hell’s going on with you? Every time he so much as breathes, you look like you’re gonna jump out of your skin,” Sam says, low and accusatory. Castiel holds his breath—what does he mean by that?   
“Nothing’s going on with me,” Dean hisses, and Castiel’s blood runs cold at the alpha’s tone. In their brief acquaintance, never heard Dean sound so snappy and defensive.   
“That’s clearly not true, did you—”   
“Just leave it, alright?” Dean’s voice gets louder, but as he continues, he becomes quiet enough that Castiel has to strain to hear him. “I—he made my body do something I didn’t want it to do and now I’ve gotta deal with the damned consequences.” There’s a loaded pause. Castiel’s heart sinks. Sam’s voice is ominous, worried;  
“What the hell is that supposed—” but Castiel doesn’t hear the rest. He lets out a sharp gasp as his right crutch twists under him, his careless leaning forward too far sending him stumbling and crashing into the end table behind the couch, both crutches clattering noisily against it as he falls hard on his ass. 

“Cas!” Dean shouts, Sam echoing him as they both race to his side, Dean stopping to gently help him to his feet while Sam gathers his crutches and helps him get re-situated on them. Dean’s looking him up and down, patting his lower back as if checking for injuries, forehead creased in worry, and Sam’s asking him if he’s okay but all he can do is pull away from Dean and reassure them both that he’s not hurt.  
“I’m fine, I’m sorry,” Castiel mumbles, cheeks burning with embarrassment. He needs to get out of here, needs to be alone and not being watched closely by Dean. Dean, who he’s made feel uncomfortable in his own house, who by the sound of it doesn’t even want Castiel here any more. Castiel doesn’t even blame him; he wouldn’t want some troublesome, volatile man in his home when all he did was make things worse. “I’m sorry,” Castiel chokes out, ducking his head and biting the inside of his cheek. He wishes he wasn’t too injured to camp out in is room for some alone time to think; instead, he’s got to sit here and deal with the situation he’s got himself in to.   
“Don’t apologize, Cas,” Sam says, helping him sit down on the couch and patting his shoulder comfortingly. “You okay? Didn’t tear any stitches or anything?” While Sam fusses with him, Dean is standing just a couple feet away, his scent conflicted, even more upset than before. There’s something heavier, more potent beneath it, but hell if he knows what it is. 

Once he’s convinced them that he’s completely fine—at least physically, as much as he can be after having been hit by a car—he asks Sam if he’ll help him upstairs to get a sweatshirt, claiming that he’s cold. The temperature’s fine really, he just needs an excuse to hide out in his room and… think. His chest aches, both from the pressure on his ribs, and melancholy as he recalls what he’s overheard. God, he can’t sit down there with Dean knowing that he’s just making things worse. “Why don’t you just stay here and rest for a bit, I’ll run upstairs and grab it real quick,” Sam suggests, unconsciously throwing his plans out the window. Despite how much he wants to come up with some argument about why he needs to go, he knows he can’t, not when it defies all logic. Sam heads upstairs and disappears from sight, and Castiel draws in a shaky breath, bracing himself as he lifts his head to meet the eyes he feels are on him. Dean is standing in front of him, arms crossed, and when Castiel meets his gaze, the alpha looks away. Before Dean can summon back that god-awful fake cheer as a bandaid for this whole day, or some sort of shield, words are spilling out of Castiel’s mouth, the dam finally breaking. 

“Do you want me to leave?” His voice quivers at the end and he can’t even find it in himself to be ashamed, he’s so desperate to just figure out what’s going on. Dean freezes, his eyes widening in shock, completely taken aback, and Castiel bites at his swollen lip. Eventually, Dean recovers from his initial surprise and is tripping over his words in his rush to get them out.   
“What the hell, no! God no, I’m sorry, I just….” Dean’s voice drops, low and quiet, and he swallows hard, eyebrows furrowed in concern as he meets Castiel’s gaze, his voice unsure and as vulnerable as he’s ever heard it. “Do you _want_ to leave?” The following silence is sharp and potent as what he said sinks in, Castiel processing it along with his sudden scent change and the way the alpha’s body is tense with anticipation, his eyes unreadable. His throat seems suddenly dry but he doesn’t look away, instead choosing his words carefully.   
“No, I don’t want to, but it is your home, and if I’m making you uncomfortable….” Dean stares at him for a moment before rubbing a hand over his face, growling under his breath. It isn’t an aggressive sound at all; it sounds more frustrated, but Castiel gets the feeling that it isn’t directed at him. When Dean looks back up, his eyes are pained, and the scent of distress is so strong Castiel is beginning to feel unsettled, even more so than he already is. 

“Fuck. _Fuck_. Shit, I’m so fucking sorry, Cas…” Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, then drops onto the couch beside him, bracing his elbows on his bent knees and holding his head in his hands for a few seconds. Castiel waits, confused, as Dean lifts his head and meets his gaze, remorse evident in every line of his face. Hope flutters in Castiel’s chest—Dean’s being himself, Dean’s open, they can finally talk. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable at all, I promise, Cas. I fucked up—this is _my_ fault, not yours. And I’ve done a hell of a job handling it, huh?” He laughs, a dry, humorlessly sardonic sound. “I slipped up, and it really fucking scared me. It ain’t news to you that you’re damn attractive and you smell…” Dean trails off, unable to find words, “but I’m not that guy, I’d never hurt you or betray your trust by taking advantage of you, and I’m just so fucking sorry I slipped up. It was completely my fault and I should’ve had better control over myself.” He rakes a hand through his hair, blowing out a slow breath. “I want you to feel safe here, not like there’s an alpha who’s gonna jump your bones because he can’t get a grip on his damned instincts. If you don’t feel safe, then I’ll pay for you to stay at a hotel until you’re better—”  
“It wasn’t just your fault, Dean. It was mine too; if I had been more careful and taken my medication, none of this would have happened. I don’t blame you for reacting to that the way you did—any other alpha would have... but you aren’t any other alpha. You’re in control, and I trust you whether I’m in heat or not. I feel completely safe with you, and this morning doesn’t change that. I promise I’ll be more diligent with my suppressors if you allow me to continue to stay with you.” Castiel smiles, relief swallowing him up whole. Everything makes sense now, and he feels a thousand times lighter with the weight of it off his shoulders. 

Dean grins, eyes lighting up, the distress in his scent morphing into cloying pine and sun on skin. “Are you kidding? It’s great having you here, of course you can stay! Who’s gonna help me bake all the Christmas cookies Sam insists we make?” Castiel smiles back, immensely relieved everything is back to normal, the alpha back to himself and everything solved between them. As if on cue, Sam jogs down the stairs, Castiel’s sweatshirt tucked under his arm. Castiel bets he was waiting for them to finish their conversation before returning.  
“Here’s your sweatshirt, Cas,” Sam hands it to him, then grins like a kid in a candy shop, surveying the open bins full of ornaments and lights. “So now that you two have kissed and made up, can we get to decorating? As tallest person here, I call putting the star on top of the tree.”  
“Nice try, bitch. You’re gonna need to find it first, so,” Dean gestures at the storage boxes filled with Christmas decorations, “good luck getting it before I do.” Sam’s resulting eye roll has Castiel chuckling.   
“You’re on.” The two of them are digging through the bins with renewed fervor, and Castiel smiles, finishing up untangling the lights. He gets to his feet, a crutch under each arm, and walks over to the tree, swapping the lights in exchange for sitting by the bin of ornaments, handing up glass bulbs to Sam and Dean to hang on the branches. Sam finds the star and puts it on top of the tree with a flourish, all the while Dean grumbles at Sam’s triumphant smile. Dean gets to wrapping the string of lights around the tree while Sam takes the ornaments Castiel hands him and adds them to the branches. He finds that he loves it, all of it; he loves the playful teasing between Sam and Dean, the laughter and debate on what looks best with what, the Christmas music Dean puts on in the background, but mostly, he loves doing all of these festivities together. 

He’s never had an experience like this before, never got to decorate a Christmas tree and have this much fun doing it. The atmosphere is warm and homey, and it feels like he belongs here, more so than he ever belonged at his old home with his brothers and sisters. When they’d decorate the tree all those years ago, it was a solemn process of bickering and arguing and their parent’s stern commands to do things this way and follow their exact instructions. That was before his parents had given up and just paid to have it professionally decorated, putting a stop to the ‘tradition’ altogether. It had felt forced and all enjoyment and family bonding had been sucked out of not only decorating, but the holiday itself. Only now, with Sam and Dean at his side laughing and talking and singing along horribly to Jingle Bell Rock, does Castiel realize how much he loves this, how much more right it feels than it had before. This is how it’s supposed to be, he thinks as he hands Dean a candy cane-shaped ornament to hang on one of the top branches. He has a strong feeling that this will be the first Christmas he actually enjoys, the first Christmas that feels like, well, Christmas. 

***


	10. First Things First

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by and written for Astrophilla <3

***

“Is this really necessary?” Castiel asks, trying not to grumble. Dean huffs, green eyes fond as he pulls a knit hat over Castiel’s head, tugging the brim down almost over his eyes while being careful of the cuts at his hairline. Castiel reaches up to adjust it but Dean just shakes his head, hands now winding a scarf expertly around Castiel’s neck. He squints at Dean, trying to understand why the alpha seems so bent on burying him in layer upon layer of wool and coats. It’s stuffy and too hot, but Dean’s still not done, finishing up with the scarf and now helping slip mittens onto Castiel’s hands.  
“Yes, yes it is. It’s fucking cold out there, and you’re injured and just out of heat so you aren’t gonna have that perpetual fever to keep you warm.” Dean smiles satisfactorily to himself as he steps back to give Castiel a once over, no doubt pleased that he’s wrapped in a cocoon of fabric. As much as Castiel is feeling uncomfortably warm still in the house under all these jackets, he has to admit that Dean has a point, even if he is going overboard. Castiel’s heat had finally passed the previous night; he’d felt the ever present internal burn dissipate, the hypersensitivity to scents and touch begin to lessen, and the constant background urge to touch himself finally ebb. It had come as a massive relief, leaving him feeling quite a bit better in all regards, which had led him to move around more, offering to help with more tasks and do more for himself, despite both Sam and Dean’s protests. He isn’t sure if it was his increased mobility that keyed Dean into realizing his heat finally passed, or if it was because the alpha noticed Castiel stop taking his suppressors, or most likely, the change in his scent. Whatever it was, Dean apparently now feels the need to keep Castiel unreasonably warm. He’ll take it, since it means that he can now finally get used to feeling like normal, or whatever that may now be. 

Now apparently content with the layers he’s bundled Castiel up in, Dean snags his keys and shoves his feet into his boots as Castiel shifts on his crutches, finding it difficult to grip the support bars with his hands in the mittens. “Bye, Cas,” Sam calls from the living room, where he’s curled up on the couch, laptop perched on his knees. Sam takes a drink from his steaming mug, looking up from his scrolling as Castiel says goodbye and Dean rolls his eyes at Sam’s “bye to you too, jerk”.  
“Bitch,” Dean retorts goodnaturedly, then fixes Castiel with another assessing look. He hopes Dean isn’t debating making him wear something to cover the last of his exposed skin, his face the only part of him not hidden beneath fabric of some kind. He has a feeling a ski mask wouldn’t exactly calm nerves in the hospital waiting room. “C’mere, I’m gonna help you. Sam, can you grab his crutches?” Castiel sighs; at this point, he knows it’s futile to argue with the alpha when it comes to being helped around. He’s swallowed whatever was left of his desire to be stubborn and not have help with things he thinks he should be able to do by himself, and gave in, allowing Dean to put an arm around him as support when he was faced with stairs. They’d made a temporary bed up on the couch for him so he wouldn’t have to go up and down as much, thankfully sparing him the extra exertion. Sam gets up, steps into his slippers, and snags Castiel’s crutches while Dean easily supports Castiel in his arms, holding him without effort to his broad chest, bearing nearly all his weight. Castiel would be lying if he said he no longer took note of the muscular planes of the alpha’s chest, or how the muscle bunches in Dean’s arms when he steadies him. He just hopes he’s reached the point where he’s stopped blushing at the proximity and the effect realizing Dean can support his weight without trouble has on him.

Dean helps him into the garage, Sam opening the passenger side door of the Impala so Dean can set him down gently on the seat. As Castiel readjusts himself so he’s sitting up properly, Sam throws the crutches into the back and Dean gets in behind the wheel. They back out of the garage and into the bad weather waiting for them outside, the snow coming down heavy and building up to obscure the windshield before Dean switches the wipers on full. Dean turns the music on at a decent volume, then aims the heat vents at Castiel and turns the temperature up high as well. By the time they reach the hospital, Castiel is well on his way to becoming over heated, hot air blowing on him and too many layers doing the trick. This changes immediately, however, when Dean kills the engine and comes to collect Castiel at his door, gathering him close and pulling him into his side. The heat radiating off of Dean like a furnace does little to combat the dramatic change in temperature; the snow is being lashed against them by the arctic wind, and the air feels so cold it hurts his lungs and airways to inhale, stinging his eyes while the wind makes them water. “Fuck it, we’re just gonna have to book it,” Dean grumbles, squeezing Castiel closer and ducking his head as he picks up a quick walk, heading for the brightly lit hospital entrance. Castiel clings to Dean as tight as he can with his quickly numbing fingers, for fear that Dean is going to slip on some ice and they’re both going to go down in what would be a very messy and uncomfortable heap. He presses his face against Dean’s shoulder to escape the wind and snow, taking a deep inhale of the alpha’s ambrosial pine-and-leather musk before he can think to stop himself. The following warmth and euphoria that floods through him is a good distraction from the half-blizzard Dean’s guiding them through. 

The second they’re in the door, both Dean and Castiel exhale a collective sigh of relief. Castiel raises his head and looks around him as Dean strides into the waiting room and deposits him into a chair before heading over to the front desk and checking in. Afterwards, Dean drops into the chair next to his. “Wow. Looks like tomorrow we’re getting that white Christmas everyone drools over,” Dean grins at him, raking a hand through his hair to dislodge the melting snowflakes there. “Too bad it isn’t as tender and mild as the songs make it out to be.” He chuckles and Castiel is momentarily overcome by the sight of him like this; his freckled cheeks a rosy red that contrasts beautifully with his bright, jade eyes, full lips flushed red and twisted into that familiar crooked smirk. He blinks slowly and nods, trying to get a grip on his brain, which isn’t in that much of a hurry considering the lingering effects of Dean’s heady scent clouding the way.  
“I’m surprised you didn’t slip on the ice,” Castiel says the first thing his scrambled brain can come up with. Dean snorts, then gives him a jaunty wink.  
“Don’t jinx it. Unless you want to be carted out in a wheelchair leaving here, you’re gonna be risking it. Don’t tempt the fates.” Castiel chuckles and stretches out his bad leg. He hopes that it’s making good progress with healing; the cast is driving him absolutely insane. He hates the restricted movement, hates having to dangle it out of the bathtub, and hates having to use crutches to keep his weight off of it. It’s both inconvenient and annoying, and as much as he secretly likes Dean holding him to his chest, he hates that it’s under these circumstances, making him feel like an invalid who needs assistance with even the smallest of tasks, like getting into a car.

A nurse calls his name out from the front desk and Dean immediately pulls him into his arms and follows her out of the waiting room and down a series of long halls. They finally turn into one of the examination rooms and Dean sets Castiel down on the table, the sanitary paper crackling beneath him as he straightens out his leg. Dean takes a seat in one of the two available chairs while the beta nurse introduces herself and flips a page on her clipboard, reviewing Castiel’s injuries with him. She lists off an exhaustive list of contusions and sprains and breaks, and Castiel struggles to keep up with the meaning behind the terms like ‘blunt force trauma’. He nods along, taking note of the fairly extensive damage done to his body, and can’t help but notice Dean’s tense posture. The alpha is sitting ramrod straight, listening intently with a look that is some muddled blend of worry, unhappiness and focus, and his scent has taken on faint storm-and-spice undertones that Castiel now recognizes for what they are, associating them with the other times he’s smelled like this, only more so. The nurse begins the questioning after she slips on a stethoscope and presses the metal end piece over his heart. She asks him routine questions that grow more specific and pointed, and Castiel answers as honestly as he can while performing the tasks that she asks, inhaling as deep a breath as he can while she feels his ribcage and back, tracking her finger as she shines a light into his eyes. He’s very conscious of Dean’s eyes tracking each movement, but doesn’t glance up to meet his gaze until she’s finished with her next test. 

Dean offers him a small smile that’s probably meant to be reassuring when their eyes meet, but then the nurse asks about his knee and how much he’s been walking and if he’s been doing any strenuous activities. She gently rotates his leg to the side with a hand at his ankle and he bites his lip to restrain a pained grunt, wincing at the motion. This seems to concern her—Dean infinitely more so—and then she’s asking him to do several more range of motion tests, taking notes at what makes him cringe or hiss in pain. By the look on her face, these aren’t good signs. Dean’s rigid, hands in tight fists pressed against the seat, jaw clenched, and his scent grows stronger as the tests progress, causing unease to settle behind Castiel’s sternum. Things aren’t going well, and Castiel can only hope Dean is overreacting and that he isn’t performing badly enough with these check-up tests to warrant such a reaction. The nurse finally stands up and gives him a practiced calming smile. “The doctor will be over to take a look in just a few minutes. In the meantime, we need to get you X-rayed.” Castiel nods and the nurse unfolds a wheelchair, gesturing for him to sit. With her help and Dean on his feet hovering near by, eager to assist, Castiel takes a seat and is wheeled to another room where X-rays of his ribs and knee are taken. Another nurse arrives while the other goes over the X-ray results and wheels him back to the examination room where Dean is waiting. 

The new nurse, a blonde omega, promises that they’ll be informed of the results when the doctor arrives. “He should be here shortly! Until then, our records have you down as having gone through your first heat. I’m going to ask you a few general questions about it and then an obstetrician will follow up after the doctor is finished. Do you wish to answer in private?” Castiel shakes his head; the general heat questions can’t be too bad and personal. He doesn’t mind Dean hearing these, it’s nothing he wasn’t privy to before. The conversation and examination with the obstetrician is another thing entirely though, something he definitely must do in private.

She asks about his symptoms, like his appetite and temperature, and answering those are easy enough. She asks if he had sex during his heat and he imagines that since his response is negative, that the more personal questions are spared. The doctor arrives shortly after she’s finished, and Dean stands to shake his hand after the doctor shakes Castiel’s. He too is a beta, his scent mild and easy on his senses. He does a more thorough examination of Castiel’s knee and ribs, then stands up to write on his clipboard before speaking. “I have some unfortunate news, Castiel. The rate of healing isn’t quite as quick as we should be seeing.” The doctor launches into a detailed analysis of Castiel’s X-ray results, pointing to the breaks and cracks in the bone on the prints to demonstrate his point. He explains how Castiel’s overactivity stunted the healing process, and how the worsening of his ribs and lack of progress with his knee exhibits that fact. Dean’s scent is so thick with thunder and spice that Castiel feels a little dizzy, struggling to process the information. The doctor goes on to explain what he needs to do, giving him much stricter physical limitations and suggesting a wheelchair, which Castiel verbally opposes, despite Dean’s encouragement and the doctors advice. He eventually relents, sighing in surrender, and agrees to use a wheelchair when going any long distance, but not around the house. The doctor permits him to use his crutches at home, but on the condition that he stays in bed or lying down and resting unless he absolutely must move. Castiel is disheartened but accepts the doctor’s orders, regretting his stubbornness and pushing himself when he know he shouldn’t have. No doubt Dean is going to give him an earful once he’s out of here. His shoulders slump and he tells himself that he’s only dealing with the consequences of his actions. This time, he vows to follow the directions so he can finally get better.

An omega obstetrician comes in once the doctor leaves with a wheelchair, and Castiel frowns as Dean helps him to sit in it. Dean pats his shoulder and tells him he will be in the waiting room, and then the obstetrician wheels him down to the OB/GYN wing and into another examination room. There she gives him a very thorough examination and asks questions that are so specific he has to think back to come up with the answer, trying to remember how many times he’d climaxed during his heat, the consistency of his slick, and other such probing details. The examination is very unlike anything he’s ever had before, but at the end of it, the obstetrician tells him cheerfully that his reproductive system is healthy as ever and that his late presentation has had no negative effects on his fertility. She also encourages him to come back in at a later date to undergo more fertility tests so that he knows his chances of successful pregnancy, and his window of fertility. It’s all very new to him, but he’s realizing that considering these parts of himself—his fertility and related omega characteristics—doesn’t make him uncomfortable or displeased. He doesn’t feel less like himself, doesn’t feel like any vital part of his identity has been lost, but instead feels almost awed to know he can now carry a child. It somehow feels natural, even though he’s sure it will take a bit for him to grow used to the idea.

The appointment is finished with the unpleasant removal of his stitches, for which Dean is surprisingly tenser than he is and reeking of the conflicting scents of spice and honey. They’re somehow fitting, the spice accentuating Dean’s worry, while the honey goes hand in hand with the comforting tone of his voice as he talks Castiel through it. As soon as it’s over, Castiel is eager to go home.

His good health as an omega aside, his overall physical health in regards to his injuries is going to need quite a bit of improvement. He’s ready to go back to Dean’s and start his more steadfast recovery, especially since it’s Christmas Eve and it’s the first ever one he’s actually looked forward to. 

***

To Castiel’s surprise, he doesn’t get lectured like he knows he deserves to be after his persistent stubbornness halted his healing progress. Dean just helps him into the car, folds the wheelchair up and put it in the trunk, then hurries inside and starts the engine. As they drive home, Castiel keeps waiting for Dean to say what must be on his mind, but the alpha doesn’t say ‘I told you so’ or blame him or anything like it. “Don’t worry, Cas. You’re gonna get better ASAP, and hey! Staying in bed and not having to move is the way to go about it. I mean, breakfast in bed, Dr. Sexy marathons…” Dean looks over and grins at him. “And what better time for it than Christmas? We can watch Christmas movies and stuff our faces with the cookies Sam made, that doesn’t require moving around! And before you know it, you’ll be up and around and your knee and ribs’ll be all fixed up!” Castiel smiles at the genuine optimism in Dean’s voice, and feels glad to his core that Dean seems to know exactly what he needs to hear. “In the meantime, tomorrow is Christmas and we’ve got lots of Christmas things to cram in. Sammy and I always go all out, and I make no apologies for the shit ton of ‘festivities’ on the way.” Castiel laughs, feeling lighter than he had been five minutes ago. His body may not be healing fast enough for his liking, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to enjoy his Christmas with Sam and Dean any less. 

***

As Dean promised, they spend the day doing all of the Christmas festivities Castiel had either been deprived of, or experienced wrongly in the crushing atmosphere of his childhood home with his brothers and sisters and parents, with their clinical, perfect-Christian approach to the holiday. Even small tasks such as frosting the cookies makes him feel a child-like joy he never realized he was robbed of until he’s here and basking in it. Dean and Sam talk and laugh and bicker with each other and he feels like a part of it, this small but warm family. Dean smells heavily of pine and sunny days, his scent strong and happy, and Castiel adores it, adores how it connects to the familial bonding and what he’s come to understand as actual Christmas spirit. Being able to talk and see Sam is just like how they used to be in high school, as if nothing has changed between them, and he feels comfortable and more at home than he’s ever felt at any of his homes before. This is how Christmas should be like, not a solemn, draining, pretentious affair, but _this_. 

Castiel makes sure to do everything sitting down, frosting the cookies at the table, or picking the next Christmas song, or helping Dean make the pie for tomorrow night. Dean teaches him the secret to a perfect crust and tells him how Mary would let him poke the holes in the crust with a fork before they’d put it in the oven when he had been a child. It warms Castiel’s heart hearing about it, and he thinks he’s finally understanding at least part of Dean’s apparent love for baking and cooking, the former he doesn’t outright admit to. For dinner, Castiel helps Dean make a homemade pizza, while Sam sits across from them chopping vegetables up for the salad and complaining about the amount of pepperoni Dean heaps on. After they’ve finished off the pizza, they end up retiring to the living room to finish off Christmas Eve with a marathon of Christmas movies that both Sam and Dean are shocked Castiel hasn’t seen the majority of. Growing up, his parents had not bothered with TV and movies, and that had severely limited his exposure to what Dean indignantly declares are must-see ‘classics’. The alpha vows to show Castiel all of the Christmas movies he’d been scandalized to find out he’d never seen, starting tonight. Sam takes the armchair, leaving Castiel and Dean to take the couch. Dean gets up to put the first movie in— _A Christmas Story_ —and Castiel sits down on the left side of the couch, propping his leg up while at the same time trying to make sure Dean has enough room. 

The movie starts playing and Dean sits down next to Castiel instead of by his propped up foot, trying to give Castiel enough room to stretch out. He feels bad for taking up most of the couch, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind, grinning as he points out things in the movie and relaxes, posture completely at ease despite being crammed up against the arm of the couch and Castiel’s side. The alpha is nearly radiating with the heady, intoxicating scent of what Castiel knows is distinctly _Dean_ , rich and comforting and as close to perfection as anything in the world can come. He feels drunk with it, the feedback loop it creates in his brain sending all kinds of wonderful feelings through him. Dean this close, this relaxed and at home, smells like things he can’t even put a name to, putting him into a blissful haze that is quickly making him drowsy with contentment. Sam puts in _Elf_ next and Castiel’s eyelids are drooping by the time the end credits are rolling. Over time he’s melted against Dean’s side, the heat of his alpha sinking him deeper towards sleep, his body feeling completely at ease, safe, and cared for, and thus giving him the go ahead to knock out. He fights it, trying to stay conscious to keep up with the beginning of _Home Alone_ , but before he knows it, he fades out, Dean’s scent and warmth too much to resist. He almost comes to once, the sound of the TV a low background rumble, and vaguely notes how he’s no longer upright. Dean’s presence is still right there, and that’s all it takes for Castiel to drop back off.


	11. Eat, Drink, and Be Merry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by and written for Astrophilla <3

Castiel wakes up Christmas morning slightly disoriented, blinking his eyes open at the sunlight streaming in through the slats in the window blinds as he registers where he is. He vaguely remembers feeling drowsy watching the Christmas movies, but there’s a gap between that last memory and realizing that he’s in his bed now, with no recollection of coming up here. It’s not hard for him to fit the puzzle pieces together; everything, from the excessive amount of blankets he’s tightly wrapped in, to the pillows stuffed under his leg to keep it elevated, points to Dean. He feels his cheeks flush at the thought of Dean having to carry him up the stairs—definitely not an easy task. Something at his core warms, however, at the thought, taking note of all the small but, to him, significant things the alpha thought to do to for him. Castiel hears Sam and Dean talking downstairs, paired with the occasional metallic clang, and feels a grin spread across his lips. It’s Christmas morning, and for the first time ever, he’s actually excited about going downstairs to be a part of it. Not solely because of the thoughtless store-wrapped presents his parents had bought him for the past ones.

The thought has him hurrying to get out of bed, fighting to free himself from the thick cocoon of blankets and swing his legs over the edge of the mattress. He reaches for his crutches, which Dean’d propped up against the wall at the headboard of the bed, and hoists himself up on them. Hurrying down the hall and stairs is less quick than it should be, but considering his usual pace, he’s pretty speedy. Sam and Dean are bickering about something, their voices clear and audible from the bottom of the stairs as Castiel comes around the corner and into the living room. His smile grows when he sees the tree lit up, several presents with greatly varying wrapping jobs sitting beneath the lowest branches. It looks so different from the scene he’d come down to as a kid; everything about this Christmas morning feels more homey, more intimate, more real. The snow falling heavily outside, visible through the windows to the left of the tree are the perfect touch, and he wants to stand here and continue to absorb the scene, but there’ll be time to do that afterwards.

Castiel pads into the kitchen to find Dean effortlessly flipping a pancake out of the skillet on the stove onto the plated stack beside it, Sam sitting at the table and pouring coffee into the three mugs set in front of each place at the table. They both look up when he enters, grinning and greeting him with dual, child-like excitement in their eyes.  
“Mornin’ Cas!” Dean says, lifting up the measuring cup of batter and pouring a pool of it into the skillet. “Hope you’re hungry! Winchester Christmas morning breakfasts are big enough to feed a small army,” Dean chuckles. “Though my cooking is way better than anything you’d find served in a military cafeteria.” He winks jauntily and prods at the bacon frying in another skillet, the smell of which has Castiel’s mouth watering.  
“Merry Christmas!” Sam adds, beaming. Castiel’s smile somehow grows even wider.  
“Good morning, and merry Christmas, Sam, Dean,” Castiel replies, looking around the kitchen to see if there is anything he can help with. Sam waves him over, pulling out a chair for him.  
“C’mon, sit down! Dean’s almost done with the food,” Sam encourages, and Castiel complies, sinking into the chair and setting his crutches aside. Everything smells wonderful, and if there’s anything he’s learned while staying with Dean, it’s that the alpha is an amazing cook. 

Dean joins them minutes later, setting down plates of steaming bacon, pancakes, eggs, and hashbrowns before taking a seat himself. His eyes light up as Sam immediately grabs his plate and starts to fill it up with more food than it looks like it can hold. Dean laughs at him and tells him to let Castiel go first and the beta apologizes, smiling sheepishly while dishing up Castiel some eggs. “Sorry, Cas! It’s been too long since I’ve had a good breakfast, and Dean’s is the best. Do you want another scoop?” That comment seems to make Dean proud, but doesn’t stop him from making fun of Sam for the amount of fruit he adds to his own plate, resulting in an eye roll from his brother. Castiel chuckles fondly and finishes up serving himself, pouring syrup on the pancakes and digging in, unable to wait any longer with how good the food looks and smells. He lets out an appreciative groan at the bite of fluffy pancakes as they melt on his tongue, absolutely sure that he’s never tasted anything so good in his life. Dean swallows noisily, wrapping his hand too tight around his coffee mug as lifts it to his lips. Castiel wonders if he’d burned his mouth to warrant the reaction, but before he can ask if Dean’s alright, Sam launches into a discussion about the plans for the rest of the day in between mouthfuls of hashbrowns and bacon.

“Okay so Bobby and Charlie are coming for dinner for sure, but we should make enough for seven because Jo and Ellen said they’ll try to make it if they can with the blizzard and all, it’s best that we’re prepared. And if the weather calms down for a bit we should see if we can pick up some more salad stuff, we’re all out and we need to have one with dinner.” Sam continues to ramble on and Dean rolls his eyes and sighs goodnaturedly.  
“Or, you can stop bitching and we can open presents, how does that sound?” At that, Sam beams and shoves his chair away from the table, stuffing the last of the bacon into his mouth before heading into the living room to sit cross legged by the tree. Dean helps Castiel up and the two join him.  
“Keep in mind I have a college kid’s budget, guys,” Sam jokes as he grabs two neatly wrapped presents, both in blue and white snowflake patterned paper, and sets one in each of their laps.  
“And I suck at wrapping, yeah, I know, so sue me.” Dean looks at Sam. “Actually, don’t, you lawyer sasquatch.” Dean smirks and grabs the two of the most awfully wrapped gifts and hands one to Sam and the other to Castiel. Castiel’s eyes widen in surprise and he looks between the two brothers, feeling bad that he didn’t get them any gifts.  
“I-I didn’t get you two anything, I—” Sam waves him off before he can finish.  
“Don’t worry about it, Cas. How were you supposed to get anything anyways? I’m just glad I get to see you for Christmas, even if the circumstances are less than ideal.”

“Yeah, I’m—we’re—just glad you’re here,” Dean finishes, smiling at him. He smells so beautiful, his scent like the forest on summer day, rich and perfect with happy alpha pheromones. Castiel wants to wrap himself in it, breathe it in until it’s all he can smell, until he himself smells of his—He stops that thought dead in its tracks, disturbed by how easy and natural it had come. The omega offers them a grateful smile, pulling himself back out of his thoughts and silently promising to return the favor somehow as soon as he is able. “So whatcha waiting for? Open ‘em,” Dean prompts them, slapping Sam on his shoulder. Sam’s smile is back in full force as he tears away the messy wrapping and examines the pristine white box in his hands, eyes blowing wide as he opens it and pulls out a sleek silver laptop with the Apple logo embossed at the center.  
“A _Macbook?_ Holy shit, Dean!” Sam crows, throwing his arms around Dean’s shoulders in a quick hug before returning to his new laptop. He open it with near reverence, running his fingers over the edge of the screen. Dean chuckles as he watches his little brother grin like a kid in a candy shop.  
“Figured you could use a new laptop, pre-law must be hard with that old piece of crap you’ve been using. So I went with the best.” Sam closes it and sets it down with pure strength of will, now looking eagerly at the present in Dean’s hands. 

“I love it, thank you so much,” Sam beams, then nods to the package he’d handed Dean earlier. “Now open yours!” Dean doesn’t need to be told twice. He rips away the paper and finds in his hand is a framed picture of a broadly smiling toddler holding a soundly sleeping infant, the toddler sitting in a beautiful blonde woman’s lap, her husband sitting by her side with his arm around her. Castiel recognizes the man as John Winchester, which means the woman he’s smiling at must be Mary. Dean’s chubby cheeks are freckled even at that age, the toddler smiling proudly as he cradles his baby brother in his small arms. It’s a heart-warming picture; the Winchester family is together and happy, before John lost Mary and Sam and Dean lost John. Dean’s eyes are locked on the picture and he swallows hard, working the muscles in his jaw as he looks intently down at it, his hand going up to finger the bronze amulet hanging on a necklace around his neck. His scent grows sweeter and it tugs at Castiel’s heart, as does the alpha’s struggle to keep his face composed when he’s fighting back tears. Dean clears his throat, raising one hand to scrub at his eyes as he meets Sam’s soft gaze. “Our grandfather, Henry, stopped by my apartment one day and said he was going through his things and he found this picture. I want you to have it. It’s one of the only pictures there are of us all as a family.” Sam smiles gently and Dean pulls him in for a tight hug. 

“Thank you, Sammy.” Dean clears his throat loudly, his voice sounding rough with emotion as he tries to school his features and get a hold of himself. He sets the picture down carefully and then turns to Castiel. “Now it’s your turn, Cas.” Castiel grabs Sam’s immaculately wrapped gift first, pulling the paper away to find a thick, old book with _The Iliad_ inscribed along the spine in silver. Castiel opens it, running his fingers over the age-yellowed pages. He’d always liked older books, with their character and sacred timelessness. _The Iliad_ had been one of his all-time favorites when he’d first read it years ago.  
“Thought you could use something to read when you get Dean gets too annoying and you need a break,” Sam explains with a grin, and Castiel returns it, closing the book and tracing his thumb over the lettering on the cover.  
“Hey, I’m a joy to be around,” Dean grumbles, smiling anyways. Sam rolls his eyes at that but grins back.  
“Thank you, Sam. I can’t wait to read it. You must’ve remembered how much I love Greek literature,” Castiel says gratefully. Sam pats his non-injured shoulder.  
“Of course, you’d always be reading that stuff after school or during lunch.” They both laugh and Dean nudges the other gift Castiel had been handed.  
“C’mon, open up mine!” Dean urges, and Castiel complies, messing with the copious amounts of tape compensating for the complete lack of gift wrapping finesse. With some dexterity, he manages to tear away all the paper, leaving him holding a white box much smaller than Sam’s. 

Castiel opens it and removes a brand-new cell phone, eyes widening in surprise. He turns it over in his hands, then looks up at Dean, who’s smiling hopefully, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You don’t have a phone, so I figured I’d get you one because I want you to be able to get a hold of me, or Sam, if you need anything, and when you start your new job you’re gonna need to—” Castiel cuts him off, opening his arms and wrapping them around Dean, gratitude thick in his voice as he hugs the alpha. Dean returns the hug, his arms wrapping loosely around Castiel so as not to put pressure on his ribs or shoulder. He can’t believe Dean would get him something so expensive, especially considering Castiel himself didn’t get Dean anything. Still the gesture touches his heart and sends warmth spreading through him. He wishes he had a better way to thank Dean, with more than just his words and hug and the gratitude that must be thick in his scent.  
“Thank you,” Castiel echoes himself again, gazing into Dean’s copper-flecked green eyes. Dean holds his gaze before looking down at the phone, a barely noticeable blush rising in his freckled cheeks.  
“Of course, you needed one! I already put mine and Sam’s numbers in it,” Dean rambles, and Castiel just smiles, looking from him to Sam and around at the Christmas tree and torn wrapping paper left behind from the best Christmas morning he’s ever had. 

***

Castiel frowns at his face in the bathroom mirror. It’s definitely looking better, with the stitches gone and not a speck of dried or fresh blood to be seen, but it still isn’t back to normal. His lip and eye are still bruised and slightly swollen, and the cuts adorning his skin are angry red lines that look especially harsh against his pale complexion. Even though his face is still mildly gruesome to look at, he knows that the guests they’re having for Christmas dinner tonight won’t mind. He’s still worried about making a good impression, however, which is why he’s wearing his nicest pair of jeans (which had been a total pain to put on with his leg in the cast, but he’d managed), a white dress shirt, and his favorite navy blue sweater over it instead of his usual sweatpants-and-jumper combo. He’d even taken care to try and smooth down his wild hair and get it to lie flat, something that had proved to be ultimately futile. Giving himself one more once over, Castiel decides it’ll do and heads back downstairs on his crutches to help Sam and Dean with dinner.

He’s half way down the stairs when the lights flicker. He hears Dean growl out a ‘sonovabitch!’ And then slam something down, and Sam’s voice respond, much calmer. Two beats pass and then the lights flicker for a second before going out entirely, plunging the house into darkness. Dean’s loud cursing immediately follows, his voice getting closer as Castiel hears the alpha stomping over to the staircase. “Cas? You okay?” He calls, and Castiel nods as Dean’s eyes fall on him and the alpha gives a little sigh of relief before helping him the rest of the way down. “The fucking power went out and I have a fucking ham in the oven,” Dean grouches, and Castiel sets a placating hand on his shoulder.  
“It’s okay, Dean. The power will probably come back on soon, don’t worry,” he says, though with the ominous howling of the blizzardous winds outside, he finds himself doubting if it actually will before the words are already out of his mouth. 

An hour passes with the three of them dealing with the food -- throwing away what’s ruined and putting aside everything that can be salvaged -- before Castiel realizes he was wrong. 

Dean stops grumbling once the food he’d been working on is thrown out, seemingly resigned, but starts up again when first Charlie and then Bobby, and finally Ellen text him that the weather is too bad for them to make it over, that the roads are iced over and buried under at least a foot of snow and the blizzard raging outside is only a testament to that fact. While everyone is disappointed, the air tainted with the scent of discontent, Castiel works to try and improve everyone’s mood and salvage what can be of Christmas night. Dinner may not be going as planned, but that doesn’t mean they still can’t have one. He reminds Dean and Sam of this fact and gets to work lighting the candles Dean drags out from a supply closet, He then proceeds to begin dishing up the salad Sam had made earlier, Dean perking up and heating up a couple cans of soup on the gas-powered stove. Sam joins in, setting the table and pouring drinks, and gradually the atmosphere warms up as the three start talking and laughing again. By the time they’re finishing up their soup and salad (the latter Dean surprisingly ate this time), it’s as if nothing’s changed from earlier, the only difference that their faces are illuminated by candlelight and Dean’s jokes are now centered around the weather gods hating them. 

The temperature in the house is rapidly dropping, so much so that while Castiel washes the dishes in the ice cold water from the faucet, he can see his breath in the light provided by the candles grouped around the sink. The cold has set into his bones and he shivers violently as the water runs over his numb hands. Dean and Sam are trying to get the the generator to work so they can have heat, and Dean had insisted Castiel sit tight until then and not do the dishes for fear of his health, but Castiel’s decided that he’s capable of standing long enough to wash up the few bowls, plates, and silverware. “What the hell, Dean! Couldn’t you’ve remembered that _before_ we decided to go digging through the endless piles of crap you have in there for the damn thing?” Sam asks, exasperated, as he and Dean step into the kitchen, coming in from the garage. The power’s still out, which can only mean one thing. Dean throws his hands up, retorting with,  
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had to use it, Sam!” Castiel interrupts their bickering, turning off the water and drying his hands on his jeans.  
“What happened?” Dean sighs, running a hand over his face as Sam glares at him.  
“The generator’s broken. I’d been meaning to get it fixed, but—”  
“But you were too lazy to get a part for it and fix it when you had like five friggin’ years to do so!” Sam finishes, and the two launch back into the verbal fight. Castiel shudders again, gritting his teeth so they don’t chatter, and Dean catches the motion, immediately going silent as realization dawns on him. He reaches forward and grabs Castiel’s hand in his, his skin blessedly hot against Castiel’s icy skin. 

“Jesus Cas! You’re fucking freezing!” Dean claims, his scent growing sharp and spicy with his concern, reminding Castiel of those times at the hospital he’d smelled it, and that time he’d woken up in the bath. Dean lets go of his hand and jogs over to the coat rack by the door, yanking off Castiel’s winter jacket, and then returns to place it around his shoulders, holding it up just long enough for Castiel to slip one arm inside before the alpha is running off again, disappearing down the hall from sight. Sam frowns, coming over to help Castiel get his arm with the injured shoulder inside the other sleeve, and Castiel is too cold to shake him off and say he doesn’t need help.  
“Shit, it’s gotten really damn cold in here. Don’t worry, Dean and I’ll figure something out, do you want me to get your mittens-” Sam starts, but cuts off when Dean jogs back into the room with his arms so full of blankets he can’t even see around them. They both watch as Dean goes to Castiel’s temporary couch-bed and drops the mound of blankets, several pillows falling out as well, and then he gets to work, moving faster and with more purpose than Castiel’s ever seen him work on something before. He watches in bewilderment as Dean spreads the blankets out, tucking them in on one side while adding more to the outer edge of the couch bed, making a sort of shallow wall around the perimeter with stacked blankets and pillows on the inside to reinforcement. He adds more blankets, tugging and pulling at the corners until they’re how he wants them, then steps back, looking critically at his work. 

Something behind Castiel’s navel dances and pulls tight, a deep, molten warmth spreading out through his core as some innate, visceral part of himself recognizes what Dean’s made. He tries to tamp it down, squash that stupid part of his omega self that’s feeling all kinds of things watching his alpha make them a nest. Only it isn’t a nest, Dean isn’t his mate, and he surely isn’t _his_ alpha, he tells himself. That’s not what this is, despite how much something at his core aches for exactly that. “Alright, this should be good enough until I think of something else,” Dean says, looking slightly dissatisfied with his work, effectively breaking Castiel out of his internal struggle. The alpha gestures impatiently for them to get in, stepping out of the way. “C’mon, before you freeze to death. It’s time for some good-old-fashioned huddling for body heat, like they do in the army. Heh.” Sam rolls his eyes, but nudges Castiel along as he strides over the not-nest. Castiel sits down inside of it just as Sam does, and then Dean climbs in too, sitting between them.

It’s very cramped with the three of them in there, Sam’s legs taking up most of the room. Sam makes a joke about Dean being a mother hen which Dean counters with a snide remark about Sam’s ‘stupid moose legs’. Castiel shivers again and Dean’s attention is back on him in a heartbeat, the alpha frowning as his scent grows stronger of cloves and cardamom. He pulls the blankets over Castiel and up and around his shoulders as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, then wraps an arm around his shoulders, making sure to avoid the healing cut on the one, and pulls him close. Dean’s like a furnace, wonderful heat radiating from him and Castiel can’t help but melt against him, his frozen muscles thawing out as he leans against the alpha’s side, quietly inhaling a breath of that perfect scent that is Dean. “Guess we’ll be reading to pass the time,” Sam suggests, getting up to grab a few books from the bookshelf against the wall on the right. He hands Dean Vonnegut and Castiel _The Illiad_ , keeping a thick book on the Acts and Omissions doctrine he says he has to read over break for class. Sam moves more candles over for them to see by, and Castiel gets distracted by the way the light looks on Dean’s face, the shadows highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbones, the way his long eyelashes cast shadows over his freckled cheeks.

The three read together in comfortable silence, Castiel gladly soaking up Dean’s heat and secretly enjoying the way he’s tucked into Dean’s side, the weight of the alpha’s arm around him almost as comforting as his scent. The storm rages on outside and Castiel is glad for the coziness here inside. Christmas may not have gone the way they expected, but Castiel loves it more than any Christmas he’s ever had. He wouldn’t change any part of it, especially not how this feels more like family than anything else ever has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a day late! Guess the stars were out of line or something, hahaha! To compensate, this chapter is extra long! Hope you enjoyed, lots of love to you all! Thank you so much for reading <3


	12. Out of Sight, Out of Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by and written for Astrophilla <3
> 
> This chapter is from Dean's POV, just a heads up!

Something inside Dean is kickstarted when he sees Cas shivering, with his arms folded across his chest and that damn cast making him look even more pathetic. His irritation at the whole situation with the power outage and forgetting to fix the generator dissipates like steam in air as he grabs Cas’ hand and realizes just how _cold_ he is. His mind immediately pulls up the last memory where he’d felt Cas’ icy skin, when he’d found Cas asleep in the cold bath and had nearly had a heart attack. That in itself is enough for Dean to go on autopilot, his instincts taking over and working well alongside the rest of his brain, which is stuck on a panicked loop. He books it through the house, pulling all the blankets and pillows off his bed and then going to get more from the linen closet before returning to the living room, where he gets to work building with the bedding. Somewhere at his core he knows this is important, on some visceral level understanding that everything must be as perfect as possible, that he must make this warm and comfortable and soft. It’s what drives him to adjust things until they fit his high standards, until he’s satisfied with the arrangement of pillows, with the spread of the blankets, until he’s deemed them fit for Cas. 

Dean steps back and assesses his work, looking for any flaws or areas for improvement. It will do, he thinks unhappily, discontent with the final product but also keeping in mind Cas is freezing and needs somewhere to get warm as soon as possible. He’d rather have worked on something bigger, grander, more comfortable and luxurious than this mass of blankets and pillows on a couch. In his mind’s eye he pictures a massive bed, one with a memory foam or pillow top mattress, and a canopy to keep the warmth in and keep the nest hidden from prying eyes, keep his mate from prying eyes… Dean freezes. What the _fuck_. Nest? Mate? Where the hell did that come from? He looks over at Cas, with his too-pale skin and his chapped pink lips and red-tinted cheeks, and ushers him and Sam over to the couch that is definitely not a fucking nest, because Cas is not his mate and he has no idea where his brain decided to get that idea from. Seriously, what the fuck. That’s going to keep him up at night, he’s sure of it. It would be easier to ignore if it wasn’t exactly what this feels like. Telling Sam to get in helps a little, helps make it feel like less of a nest with his mate and more like huddling for body heat with his brother and friend. That’s all this is and he’ll be damned if the irrational stupid feelings part of Dean’s brain and his goddamned instincts don’t want to get on board. 

Looks like he’s going to hell, because as soon as Cas climbs inside, warmth spills through Dean’s chest and he feels like he’s glowing with satisfaction, the golden feeling only growing stronger as Cas snuggles down and makes room for him. He joins them, squeezing in between Cas and Sam, then considers Cas’ shivery form beside him and pulls the blankets up around the omega’s shoulders. He still feels freezing, so Dean wraps an arm around his shoulders, taking care to avoid any wounds, and pulls Cas against his side. Cas is so responsive to Dean’s touch it makes his heart stutter and his thoughts go rapid fire in the direction he so stubbornly wanted them to avoid. The omega becomes loose and pliant as he sinks into Dean’s touch, body conforming to the shape of his arm and side, and Dean can’t help but notice how beautifully he does so. How he surrenders his weight, dropping his guard and fits himself to the shape of Dean as if it’s the most natural thing he could do. Dean’s hyperaware of every line of Cas against him, how he fits underneath his arm, how his scent is somehow sweeter, like rich honey, as he settles in. 

Dean’s feeling a thousand illicit things he’s never felt before, things he’s run from for years, avoided like the plague, and now here they are, all at once, and the last thing he wants to do is run. Cas melting into him like this feels right down to his core, from the way the omega smells to the way it puts something he never knew was always festering at ease. He wants to stay here for as long as he can, kick Sam out so it can just be him and his mate in their nest and—mother fuck. Dean is so fucked. He wants to blame it on lust, on the fact that Cas is an omega so this is just a natural reaction and doesn’t mean anything, but he knows that this isn’t what this is, that his response isn’t just hormonal, or else he’d probably only be hard right now and not feeling all of what he is. He needs to stop thinking, yeah, that’s a good idea. Instead, he focuses on reading the Vonnegut Sam gave him, determined to get his thoughts away from everything else and just enjoy Cas’ company and scent and everything else about him. Because that’s totally something a normal person would think about their friend. Right. Somehow though, he ends up doing just that, getting engrossed in the text while appreciating Cas’ honey and brown sugar scent, happy and content and very strong this close to him. 

If he’s disappointed Cas doesn’t fall asleep on him like last night, then that isn’t something he’s going to dwell on.

 

***

 

The next day goes by too quickly, leading Dean to wake up the morning of the 27th with resignation already present behind his sternum. Today’s the unofficial end of his Christmas vacation; Sam leaves to go back to Stanford and spend the rest of his break with Jess, and Dean has to go back into work at eight. Cas also has his interview today, so all in all, it’s back to business for everyone. He gets to sleep in a little more than he normally would on a work day because Bobby’s letting him come in an hour late so he can drop Cas off. Dean rolls out of bed, grabbing his work clothes and heading for the bathroom, where he takes a quick shower and shaves. It’s a familiar morning ritual that’s all muscle memory, allowing his mind to wander as he brushes his teeth. Once he’s finished, he heads down to the kitchen to make one more big breakfast for Sam before the poor kid is back to eating like a peasant with an affinity for salads. He hums to himself as he grabs a package of bacon from the fridge, thankful that it survived the power outage, and reaches for a bowl to mix the pancake batter in. 

He’s so into his cooking, masterfully flipping a pancake and catching it spot-on in the skillet, that he doesn’t hear Cas come in until his deep, rumbly voice, like satin over gravel, greets him from behind. “Good morning,” the omega hums, the words sounding like poetry in that downright unfairly sexy voice. Dean removes the finished pancake from the pan onto a plate and turns to face him, and holy fuck, was he unprepared. Castiel’s standing in front of him, a small smile on his lips, and Dean fumbles with his response at the sight of him. He’s wearing black slacks that sit low on his hips, a white dress shirt tucked into them with a navy blue tie on backwards and a little too loose at the collar, a tan trenchcoat folded neatly over his arm. He’s nearly clean shaven, just the barest hint of stubble shadowing his jaw, and perpetual sex hair has been smoothed down into more tame curls. His eyes are shockingly bright, blue like staring into the ocean, and Dean really needs to get a grip on his reaction because Cas’ pleasant expression is morphing into one of concern, probably since Dean still hasn’t replied.

“Mornin’!” Dean crows, a little too loudly, and internally curses himself for sounding like such a dumbass. Cas’ smile returns and when he turns around to start a pot of coffee, Dean can’t help but take note of the way the fabric of Cas’ slacks stretches perfectly over the curve of his ass as he bends over to grab the bag of coffee grounds from underneath the counter. A jolt of blood rushes south as Cas straightens up and he reaches for the coffee machine, the play of muscles in his back noticeable beneath the thin material of the dress shirt. Fuck. Dean needs to get a grip, and forces himself to focus on the frying bacon, urging his thoughts to go anywhere but on Cas. Cas dressed like some sort of debauched tax accountant apparently is going to be a problem if Dean can’t control his stupid libido. He turns off the burner and plates the bacon, focusing on the scent of coffee brewing instead of Cas’ rich honey and cloves one. “Hope you’re hungry,” Dean nearly winces at the roughness of his voice. “I made a big breakfast. Get dished up, I’m gonna go wake Sam,” Dean offers him a smile before making his getaway. 

Sam gets up immediately at the mention of a big, home-cooked breakfast and heads out to the kitchen before Dean’s had a chance to recover. He follows, his sasquatch of a brother wasting no time in grabbing a plate and heading over to the stove to fill it. Cas is standing by the counter, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, his backwards tie driving Dean crazy. Cas is about to get his food when Dean stops him with one hand on his shoulder. “Lemme fix your tie, buddy,” he suggests, and Cas sets his coffee down, allowing Dean to step closer. Dean loosens the tie and redoes it, flipping it around and sliding the knot up to the hollow at that base of Cas’ throat, and fuck, why does he have to think about Cas’ throat and how close he is with Cas just a few inches away and—Dean steps back looking away as he says “there ya go, all set,” and encourages Cas to get his food. It’s time to pull out the big guns: he thinks of Bobby and Sam in speedos and that almost instantly does the trick, killing his half-hard on like magic. By the time the three are sitting at the table and digging into their breakfast, Dean’s got a hold on himself, thank fuck. 

They finish up breakfast and Dean needs to get Cas to his interview. He says goodbye to Sam, who is resigned to packing while they’re gone, while they grab their things. Dean helps Cas into the Impala and they’re off, Dean following Cas’ instructions to the school and pulling up at the front entrance. The engine hums as he turns to Cas, offering him a reassuring grin. “Alright, buddy. Get in there and ace this interview!” Cas chuckles, reaching for the crutches Dean grabs from the backseat.   
“Since when did you become a motivational speaker?” He jokes, and Dean widens his eyes comically.   
“Cas, did you just make a joke?” Cas rolls his eyes and Dean guffaws loudly. “Guess it’s a first for everyone then, me being encouraging and you trying out humor. It’s nice, you should do it more often.” Cas huffs with faux irritation, the fond smile twitching the corner of his lips up giving him away. Dean gets out to open Cas’ door for him and help him up onto his crutches. “Good luck,” Dean says as Cas gets ready to head inside. “Call me when you’re ready to be picked up, I’ll just take my lunch break then and drive you home.” Cas nods and thanks him, and then he’s squaring his shoulders and pushing through the glass doors. Dean watches him disappear before getting back behind the wheel and driving to Singer’s Auto Salvage.

Bobby’s there to greet him when he walks in, slapping him on the back and saying “It’s good to see you back around here, boy,” and Dean grins back, the familiar fatherly scent of the alpha reminding him how much he’s missed working here. Charlie must hear them from where she’s currently underneath a car, because she’s wasting no time in sliding out and hurrying over to them to give Dean a hug.   
“It’s about time you’re back! It’s been getting lonely around here without your dumb arguing about my excellent music taste,” she teases, releasing him. He smiles wider at the beta, mussing her red hair up.   
“Yeah, I bet. The music ‘round here must’ve been awful while I was gone, with you in charge of the radio,” Dean shudders for effect and Charlie hits his shoulder playfully.  
“Screw you, Winchester. I saved these poor souls from your Metallica.” She’s quiet for a beat before her face lights up. “Oh! I can’t believe I almost forgot! You have to tell me all about this mystery man you’re bunking with!” Dean sighs blithely, making a point to seem disinterested when in reality he’s dreading that his cheeks might be turning pink and betraying him. Bobby huffs and rolls his eyes, shoving a clipboard into Dean’s hands and jerking his head in the general direction of a Toyota on jacks.   
“Get to work, you two, I’m not paying you to stand around and gossip like middle school girls.” Unfortunately, Charlie follows Dean over, the car she’s working on right next to his.   
“What’s his name? Sam told me you guys knew each other in high school before you, y’know,” Charlie babbles and Dean starts reading over the problems with the car, trying to ignore her. She continues on with her speculation and five minutes is all he can take before he snap and gives her the information she’s looking for. Well, at least part of it. 

“Castiel.”  
“What?” Charlie nearly brains herself on the undercarriage of the car in her hurry to get out from underneath it and sit up to see Dean, the steady stream of her chatter cutting out abruptly at his answer.   
“His name’s Castiel, now will you shut the hell up?” Dean jokes, only to realize based on Charlie’s expression that giving her one answer is only encouraging her to go on.   
“Castiel!” She sighs airily, looking at Dean and batting her eyelashes and Dean deeply regrets having admitted this much. She’s never going to stop. “He sounds dreamy. He’s an omega, right?” She doesn’t wait for an answer and Dean doesn’t bother anyways, getting back to work and praying futilely that she’ll drop it. It looks like he’s not going to get out of this without giving her at a least a little of what she wants. 

With a deep sigh, Dean surrenders. “Yeah, he’s an omega. He’s a high school teacher and I think he teaches religion or somethin’ like that. He, uh…” Dean racks his brains trying to think of something to say. How’s he supposed to describe Cas? The way his voice sounds like waves crashing on rocks, how he could read from the dictionary and make it sound sexy? Or the way his eyes seem to look through you to your soul, the blue ethereally bright? There’s no way to describe the way his laughter makes you feel warm to your core, or how he listens to whatever you have to say, be it the most trivial thing, like there’s nothing he’d rather hear about. Dean gives up on words and Charlie just raises an eyebrow, her eyes sharp and knowing in a way that makes his cheeks heat up. 

“Well I’d love to get to meet him some time, since you seem to be incapable of actually describing a person beyond their secondgender and occupation,” Charlie teases, and Dean busies himself with pointlessly making sure the bolts on the underside of the car are tight.   
“Aw c’mon, like you were any better with Dorothy,” Dean fires back, referring to Charlie’s girlfriend. Charlie makes an indignant noise, reaching her foot out to kick his ankle from where they’re both beneath cars.   
“Hell yeah I was! You said I was talking everyone’s ear off when we first started seeing each other! And I _know_ I did better than just telling you she’s a beta airline stewardess.” Charlie launches into very detailed descriptions and Dean realizes fairly quickly that all of her comments are scarily similar to the ones that came to his mind first when he was thinking of Cas, like when she describes Dorothy's laugh. Dean focuses harder on what his hands are doing, shoving all thoughts of Cas out of his mind to avoid speculation, which is not something he’s too fond of doing. It works well, the familiar feeling of losing himself in his work a good distraction until his phone vibrates in his pocket and he slides out from underneath the car to answer it.   
“Cas?”  
“Hello, Dean. I’m ready to be picked up if you are available.”   
“Yeah of course, I’ll be right there,” Dean replies, ending the call after Cas says his goodbye. 

He pulls up outside the building to find Cas leaning on his crutches near the curb, waiting for Dean to arrive. He gets out and helps Cas inside, and can’t help but ask Cas how it went before he’s even back behind the wheel. Cas smiles at him, his eyes bright with something he wishes he could see in them more often. “I got the position. I start working as an assistant teacher after winter break ends until the end of the school year. If I do well, they will give me my own classroom and the full position for the next school year.”   
“Congrats, that’s awesome, Cas!” Dean responds, grinning widely. “I believe this calls for celebratory pie later. You can pick the flavor.” Cas chuckles, the scent of happy omega cloying and heady, releasing endorphins in his own brain.   
“Thank you, Dean. I hope you like cherry.”

***

After they have dinner and Cas’ promised cherry pie, Dean has to drive Sammy to the airport. As always when Sam has to leave him again, Dean feels heavy down to his bones, sadness a rock in his stomach and the dryness in the back of his throat. The ride to the airport is made in silence with the exception of Dean’s classic rock playing on low in the background. The weight of Sam leaving is heavy on his shoulders as he thinks back to returning to his regular life without his baby brother around, back to the loneliness. Cas clears his throat from the back and Dean glances at him in the rearview mirror. That’s wrong; he won’t be alone. He has Cas, at least for a little while longer, and while Cas isn’t Sam, Cas is himself and that’s definitely more than Dean deserves. 

Despite knowing he still has Cas here with him for an undetermined amount of time, Dean’s still sullen and attempting weak humor to cover up his sadness at Sam’s flying back to Stanford. He helps carry Sam’s bags over to security, and then it’s time for the worst part of Sam’s visit. Dean sighs, long and deep, and Sam gives him that damned puppy look that he really doesn’t need right now. “I’ll Skype you when I get back. Make sure you eat something green every once in awhile since I won’t be here to harass you about it,” Sam says, and Dean throws his arms around his brother and hugs him tight.   
“Say hi to Jess for me, bitch,” Dean says as they pull back.   
“Will do,” Sam smiles and hugs Cas goodbye, and then they’re calling boarding for Sam’s flight and the weight gets heavier inside of Dean’s chest. “Goodbye, jerk.” Dean’s fighting the dryness of his throat to say goodbye back, but Sam snags his arm and pulls him over before he can get the first syllable out.   
“What—” Sam is looking hard into his eyes, as if searching for something, and Dean frowns in confusion.   
“Don’t fuck this up, okay, Dean?” Sam flicks his eyes over to Cas, who is standing a respectful distance back and looking at something on his phone. “Don’t be a dumbass about your feelings. You care about him, and he cares about you. Remember that.” Dean tries to process this when Sam pats his shoulder, grabs his bags, and says goodbye to both of them before heading towards the gate. Dean watches him go, his words still sinking in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The update's on time! Nice! *high fives self* Thank you so much for reading and commenting guys, you're the best!! <3


	13. Business Before Pleasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for and beta'd by Astrophilla <3

They fall into a morning ritual in the days following Sam’s flight back to California that quickly feels like something they’ve been doing for years. Castiel wakes at six to shower and dress, then heads to the kitchen to make coffee for himself and Dean. Dean always wakes up nearly running late for work, looking like some Roman god in the wrong place and time period, wearing a deep green mechanic’s jumpsuit instead of flowing white robes as he hurries into the kitchen. Castiel feels warmth spread through him at the grateful, sleepy smile the alpha gives him everytime he hands him his cup of coffee, which Castiel has learned he likes black with two sugars. They spend ten minutes drinking from the steaming mugs together and talking before Dean says goodbye and rushes out to his car. At that point, Castiel rinses the mugs and puts them in the dishwasher, then busies himself for a few hours preparing materials and catching up on the curriculum for work. This is something he’s used to, something he’s missed, creating lesson plans and brushing up on his knowledge of ancient Judaic mysticism. He takes a break to make himself lunch and do some of the stretches and small exercises the physical therapist at the hospital had shown him how to do to make sure sure he doesn’t lose any range of motion or strength in his condition, that he’s flexible to prevent further injury. Once he finishes his work and exercise for the day, he either reads or finds some documentary to watch on TV, and does whatever housework he can, which is limited to dishes and laundry.

Winter break officially ends with Castiel waking up Monday morning dressing not in a sweater and jeans but in slacks, a dress shirt, and tie, heading downstairs a few minutes earlier than normal so that he doesn’t risk being late on his first day of work. He brews the coffee strong, fidgeting with his backwards tie as the scent of it fills the air. He keeps running over the list he has in his head, making sure he has everything in order for today, that all of his preparations are taken care of and he is ready to go. Dean coming down the stairs and walking into the kitchen stops his train of thought completely, the alpha’s scent calming his nerves and brightening his tense mood. “Mornin’, Cas,” Dean greets him, removing the pot of coffee from machine and pouring them each a cup. 

“Good morning, Dean,” he smiles back, accepting the mug Dean slips into his hands.  
“I’m gonna have to show you how to tie this properly someday, buddy,” Dean muses, hands going to Castiel’s tie and undoing the haphazard knot and righting it with ease. Castiel hums his thanks, taking a drink from the steaming mug as he watches the way the corner of Dean’s mouth tugs up in satisfaction right when he slides the knot up to the base of Castiel’s throat. In the back of his mind he notes that he doesn’t really want to learn, he wants Dean to fix his tie for him every morning, because he likes watching the concentration in the alpha’s eyes, likes the proximity, the sunshine-and-leather scent of him stronger and deeper when he’s this close. Dean steps back, grabbing for his half-finished cup of coffee as his free hand checks his phone for the time.

“You ready to go? We gotta leave early so I have time to drop you off,” Dean says, finishing his coffee and setting his mug in the sink.  
“Yes, I’m ready,” Castiel replies, tipping back the dregs of his cup and then heading over to gather his books and folders with their paperwork after shrugging into his trench coat. A nervous sort of excitement rests behind his sternum, he’s starting over, brand new, teaching at a new school with new kids and new staff. It’s a fresh start, and he’s finally back to academia, something he’d been missing for months. He knows it’s ridiculous to worry about things going smoothly, but he can’t stop himself from considering all the differences between his last job and this new one, namely his presented status. Will that affect how his colleagues view him? It doesn’t matter, he figures. So long as he is doing what he loves and is helping his new students learn, everything is just how it should be.

The drive there is made in thoughtful silence, Castiel considering what lies in store for him. Dean’s scent helps massively to ease his nerves, and he’s hoping that the effects will stay with him even after he gets out of the car. Dean pulls up in front of the school, engine idling as he turns to Castiel with an encouraging smile. “Alright, you got everything?” the alpha asks, helping him out of the car and onto his crutches, helping him hoist his bag filled with his books and papers over his shoulder. Castiel looks in his bag, double checking, and nods, shifting on his crutches and readying himself to walk inside. “Awesome. When does school get out again?”  
“2:15. But there’s no need to pick me up until after you get off work, I will be staying after class to prepare my materials for tomorrow.” Castiel responds.  
“Right, sounds good. I should be back at 4:30, I’ll be right here. Do you want me to help you carry anything in?” Dean finishes, gesturing towards the heavy bag Castiel has slung over his shoulder. He shakes his head, considering he can carry it himself and it would be more effort than it’s worth trying to get the bag off while he’s on his crutches.  
“Have a good day, Dean. I will see you later,” Castiel says, and Dean pats his shoulder.  
“You too, Cas.” And then Dean is climbing back into his car, giving Castiel a quick wave before pulling away from the curb and heading off for work. Castiel watches until his car is out of sight, the snarl of the engine inaudible, before making his way up to the door and pushing his way inside. 

The school’s empty of students, none of them having reason to be there so early, especially on the first day back from break. He follow the helpful sign on the wall to the office, locating it easily and walking up to the front desk, the weight of the bag beginning to make his injured shoulder ache. The secretary looks up, a swarthy-skinned woman with long, curly black hair, faint beta scent easily picked up by Castiel’s heightened sense of smell. It’s still something he’s getting used to, being able to smell each second gender so much more strongly, the effects more powerful on him now that he’s presented. Betas have the most neutral and mild scent, and for that, he’s thankful. “Hello, I’m Castiel Novak, and I’m here to see a Mr. Shurley,” he tells her. She smiles warmly at him and points to a door on the right.  
“His office is in there, first door on the right,” she replies, and he nods his thanks, shouldering the bag starting to slip down his arm once more and walks to the ajar door, pausing as he debates knocking first or just entering. Lucky for him, he doesn’t have to wait and decide, because a small man with beard and glasses perched at the end of his nose opens the door, gesturing for him to enter. “Mr. Novak, it’s good to meet you. Come in,” he says, and Castiel follows his instructions. There’s a large desk adorned with a nameplate reading ‘Charles Shurley, Principal’, with two chairs across from it, one on the other side, and principal Shurley sinks into the one, leaving Castiel to sit across from him, thankfully dropping his bag to the floor and setting his crutches down beside it.

“We’re happy to welcome you to the team, Mr. Novak. It’s wonderful that you were available to fill the position at such short notice. We’re definitely in need of a new World Religions teacher now that Anna is so close to her due date,” the man says, picking up a paper cup of coffee and taking a drink from it. He’s an alpha, the scent of him shocking Castiel purely due to the fact that the man himself is so small, thin, and soft-spoken, completely unlike every alpha Castiel has ever come across.  
“Thank you for having me, Mr. Shurley,” Castiel says, still a little baffled by the meek man’s second gender. While his scent is mildly unpleasant, it isn’t nearly as bad as the one the alpha at the grocery store’s had been. “I’m looking forward to teaching, and being a Mariner,” he refers to the school’s mascot, and Mr. Shurley chuckles at that.  
“I’m sure you will fit right in, if there’s one thing we have here, it’s plenty of school spirit.” There’s a brief knock on the door and then a woman dressed in a gray pantsuit enters the room, her brown hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head. Her scent washes over him as she approaches, a decidedly more practiced, faux smile pulling her lips up at the corners, and once again he is surprised to smell that the woman is also an alpha. Female alphas are extremely rare, making up less than one percent of the population. Castiel hides his surprise well, shaking her hand when she offers it to him.

“You must be Mr. Novak, the new religion teacher. I’m Naomi White, vice principal.” her grip is like a vice on his hand as they shake hands, and he introduces himself and affirms her statement. There’s an air to her that Mr. Shurley lacks, especially as principal, one of authority, power and dominance that just doesn’t come from him, despite his alpha status. It’s very unusual, throwing off his expectations, but Castiel absorbs this information while keeping his expression neutral. Her scent is more overbearing, more pungent, unsettling at best. “We have a few things we would like to go over with you, some paperwork to sign, and then we’ll show you your new classroom, which you’ll be sharing with Mrs. Cardian, who will be responsible for overseeing your teaching and training.” Naomi says, and Mr. Shurley nods along, allowing her to take control of the meeting, as if it’s something he is used to.

Awhile later, Mr. Shurley is guiding Castiel to Room 139, after Naomi had thoroughly gone over everything from legal documents to the map of the school. “Let me know if you have any more questions. I now leave you in Mrs. Cardian’s capable hands,” Mr. Shurley says, and Castiel thanks him and enters the classroom. A red-haired woman with a swollen, distended midsection is sitting at a desk in the corner, typing on her laptop. She smells good, like sugar and cinnamon, and Castiel knows it’s because she’s a pregnant omega—who smell amazing to everyone, biology’s way of making everyone want to help and take care of them, putting them in an automatically good mood. The effect isn’t as strong as it would be on an alpha or beta, considering Castiel is neither, but it does make him feel happier, a sense of camaraderie between them even before he says anything. The woman hears him enter, spinning in her office chair to give him a friendly smile, gesturing for him to come over.  
“You must be Mr. Novak! I’m Anna,” she says, and Castiel shakes her hand.  
“Castiel. It’s nice to meet you,” he says, and Anna grins.  
“And you as well! So, do you want to take a seat? Standing on crutches doesn’t look too comfortable,” she says, without pity, for which Castiel is glad. He pulls up a chair next to her desk, pulling his books and papers from his bag and setting them down to go over with her. 

“We’re getting you your own desk, it should be here by tomorrow so you don’t have to deal with my messy one,” she laughs, and Castiel finds himself relaxing, Anna far less high-strung and serious than Naomi. Anna gives him a brief overview of what they’re learning about and he assures her he has the lessons planned out, the materials ready for the next week. Anna says she will just be supervising and that she’ll help if he needs, but that Castiel will be running the show. She tells him that she’s due to have twins in a month or so, and Castiel congratulates her, understanding why they need him to fill her position, seeing as she plans on resigning after she has her children so that she can stay home and take care of them. 

Anna helps him finish getting things ready to begin class as students start filtering into the room, dropping into seats behind desks. Before he knows it, class is starting and Anna is introducing him, kids looking up at him with a range of curiousity on their faces. He smiles, unconsciously squaring his shoulders, and tries not to focus on how overpowering their scents all are as a collective whole—alpha, mostly beta, and a few omegas. Anna takes a seat at her desk, giving him an encouraging smile as Castiel takes to the front of the classroom, and now that introductions have been made, delves into the lesson for today. 

 

***

 

The next three periods all go wonderfully, his lessons going without flaw, Anna claiming that the students listened to his lectures with more attention than they’d ever given hers. Castiel feels amazing being back where he belongs, teaching, realizing just how much he’s missed it for so long. It feels wonderful to have the students interact with him, responding to the passion and interest with which he teaches about Judaism with their own interest. As soon as the bell rings, signaling the end of fourth period, Anna rises from her place at her desk, stretching her back. “Finally, lunch time! Do you want to come with me to the staff lunch room? I can introduce you—I’m sure everyone is excited to meet you!” Castiel gives her a tentative smile, reaching for his bag with the lunch he made himself inside.  
“That would be great, Anna,” he agrees, and she grins at him, happy pregnant omega scent easing any nervousness he might have about meeting so many people at once. He follows her down a few halls and into a room with a shut door, marked with a sign displaying ‘staff only’. The door opens up to a room filled with his new colleagues, the scents hitting Castiel all at once. There’s two circular tables with people seated in chairs around the perimeter, a couple couches in front of an old TV resting atop another table. At the far right wall there’s a counter with cabinets, two fridges, and a microwave, but those don’t hold Castiel’s attention for long. As soon as he and Anna enter, nearly everyone turns to look at them, most likely due to their omega scents. They don’t look away, however, when they realize Castiel is a new face. 

“C’mon, let’s go eat,” Anna suggests, tugging at his arm, breaking Castiel out of his thoughts. He nods, fingers tightening around the grip of his crutches as he follows her to the further of the two circular tables, where a thin omega male who looks far too young to be a teacher and a beta woman with shoulder length dark hair and bright blue eyes are sitting. Castiel takes a seat next to Anna, setting his crutches down and pulling out his lunchbag to set on the table as the pregnant omega cheerfully gets to introductions. “Castiel, meet Hannah,” she gestures to the other beta, who gives him a smile and says hello, “and Samandriel”, gesturing at the male omega who looks more like a teenager than some of the seniors Castiel had had in his class today. He gives Castiel a shy but genuine smile, picking at the wrapper around his burger.  
“Nice to meet you all,” Castiel says, taking a bite of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  
“What brings you here?” Hannah asks, stabbing at the lettuce in her bowl of salad.  
“I’m the new World Religions teacher for when Anna resigns,” he responds, and the four of them make small talk for awhile, Castiel learning that Hannah teaches French and Samandriel teaches Marketing. A beta woman with a blonde pixie cut and red leather jacket takes a seat across from Castiel, introducing herself as Meg and joining in on the conversation. After a while, Castiel relaxes, the friendly conversation allowing him to open up about himself and learn more about his new colleagues. 

The group goes silent when the scent of alpha suddenly grows strong as a gaunt, tall man with wispy dark hair approaches. “What do we have here? A new little omega?” the alpha drawls, voice nasally and grating, and Castiel nearly gags on his scent, the smell of it thick, pungent and sour in his lungs. He pulls up a chair next to Castiel, and his instincts immediately start going haywire, urging him to get away from this alpha, who they feel is a threat, is dangerous. Meg sighs, rolling her eyes, and glares at the alpha as Castiel stiffens, trying to breathe as little as possible and not visibly show how unsettling the alpha’s presence is.  
“Feel free to leave us alone and go back to harassing someone who actually asked for it, Alistair,” Meg retorts, and Alistair glares back at her, the tension growing exponentially, making Castiel start to feel sick.  
“No need to be nasty, Meg. I just wanted to meet my new co-worker,” Alistair chides, his voice eerie and chilling. 

“Hello,” Castiel grits out through his teeth, hands balling into fists in his lap.  
“I hope you don’t mind me noting that you smell extraordinary. Your mate must be very lucky,” he says, with a lewd grin that makes a shiver run down Castiel’s spine. He needs to get out of here, he can’t be sitting next to this man a moment longer; his instincts are tearing at him to flee, even worse than they had been at the grocery store. Alistair glances from Castiel’s neck to his left hand, his smile growing. “Oh, no mate? My bad.” That’s it. He can’t deal with this anymore.  
“I’m not looking for a mate. It was nice meeting you, now it would be wonderful if I could return to my lunch in peace,” Castiel says as calmly as he can. Meg bursts out laughing as Alistair’s eyes narrow.  
“I think he pretty much means go to hell, see ya, Alistair,” Meg manages to get out in between fits of laughter. Alistair growls lowly under his breath as he stands up, and every part of Castiel is tense in anticipation for the alpha’s reaction. One charged moment passes before Alistair is schooling his features, giving Castiel another lecherous, sadistic smile, eyes resembling pits.  
“I’m sure we will run into each other again soon, little omega. Bye bye, for now,” his voice is light and taunting, and Castiel doesn’t begin to untense until he’s left, his scent no longer lingering.  
“Don’t mind that asshole,” Meg dismisses him, easing the uncomfortable air that’s settled in. Anna snorts.  
“He’s the biggest jerk around. I won’t be missing him when I leave, that’s for sure. If he harasses you, Castiel, just tell him to screw off and report him. He’s nothing to worry about though, you two shouldn’t cross paths often.” Anna reassures him, and Castiel smiles faintly, nodding, though he isn’t quite comforted by her words, not with the scent of Alistair still fresh in his brain. 

 

***

 

The rest of Castiel’s school day goes just as smoothly as the first four periods had, much to his relief. After class, he and Anna stay for a couple hours talking and setting up their materials for tomorrow and the rest of the week. They say goodbye and part ways, Anna going to her car, while Castiel heads out of the school to wait out front for Dean. Dean’s already there, five minutes ahead of time, idling in his Impala with Bon Jovi loud on the radio, audible even from outside of the car. Castiel smiles, walking over to the car, and Dean gets out to help him put his crutches and bag in the backseat as he slides inside. He immediately inhales a deep breath, Dean’s scent flooding his lungs and sending happiness and contentment washing through him. Once behind the wheel, Dean turns the music down so it’s in the background and they can speak. “So, how was your first day? Snot-nosed kids give you any trouble?” Dean grins and Castiel chuckles, relaxing against the leather seat as Dean pulls away from the school.  
“No, none at all. I believe they were all still rather out of it from their break.” Dean snorts at that, accelerating onto the main road.  
“Well you’ll have to tell me all about it over dinner. I’ve decided we need to go out for food tonight as a celebration.”  
“You don’t have to—”  
“I _want_ to though, and I don’t know about you, but I could really go for a bacon cheeseburger with extra onions straight off the grill at Harvelle’s.” Castiel can’t argue with that, considering how good it sounds, and the alpha’s enthusiasm at the prospect is something he doesn’t want to see go away. 

Castiel agrees and before he knows it, Dean’s handing him his crutches and helping him out of the car at Harvelle’s. They take a seat inside at a small table to the side, sitting across from each other. “Dean Winchester, that you? Been too long since I’ve seen your face around here,” comes a female’s voice, teasing and light, and Castiel turns his head to watch as a pretty girl with her blonde hair tied up in a ponytail and a black apron tied around her waist approaches, smiling widely at Dean. Her scent is mild and beta, barely there as she removes a notepad and pen from the front of her apron.  
“Well if it isn’t Jo. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be behind the bar?” Dean asks, smiling at her fondly as she huffs, blowing her bangs out of her face.  
“Normally, but Mom’s decided to give me waitressing as well. We’ve been running low on employees.” Dean hums in understanding.  
“Well it’s good to see you! Jo, this is Cas, Cas, Jo.” Dean gestures vaguely at them and Jo pats his shoulder amicably.  
“Ah, so you’re this Cas Dean’s been going on about. It’s nice to meet you! When I’m off, we should all go out for lunch some time so we can talk more. Unfortunately, Mom’s gonna kick my ass if I don’t get to the other tables in like thirty seconds, so order up, you two,” Castiel smiles back at her, seeing why Dean must like her so much; she’s easy to talk to and get along with, just like the alpha himself.  
“Aw, tell Ellen to go easy on you,” Dean doesn’t even look at the menu she hands him, instead handing it right back. “I’ll have a double bacon cheeseburger with extra onions and a beer. Cas?” He pauses, eyes traversing the menu before just picking a cheeseburger and water. Jo sweeps up his menu, saying she’ll be right back with the food. 

“So you used to work here?” Castiel asks, propping his elbows up on the table top and resting his chin on his interlocked fingers. Dean nods, looking back at the bar fondly.  
“Yep. I had bar duty nine times out of ten. Jo and I always used to compete with bar tricks,” he muses. Dean continues reminiscing out loud about his time working as a bartender, and Castiel listens intently. Jo comes back with their food and drinks, leaving with a smile and a “bye, Cas”, and Dean keeps talking while he eats. He becomes more animated as he gestures and goes into recalling the story of how once Dean had bet Jo fifty dollars on who could take four shots the fastest and Ellen had “had a cow”. Castiel finishes his fries, his eyes trained on Dean, so when he reaches back for more and his fingers brush over the empty space, Dean notices and pushes the remainder of his over to him without stopping the story. Warmth floods through Castiel’s chest at the gesture, how giving Castiel his food seemed to be just second nature to Dean.

It’s then, of all times, that Castiel is struck with realization like a freight train barreling right into him. Every time Dean would share with him, would think of him first, would worry or care too much about the most trivial things concerning Castiel’s health, how Dean would look at him in glances during car rides, or during conversations, the way the alpha’s arms felt around him, how Dean automatically had this way of putting him into a good mood no matter what the situation. It all resulted in the same warmth spilling through him like melting sunshine, like something he wanted to keep forever, something that was only his to indulge in. That something is _Dean_ , and he’s only now aware of the name for that feeling that only the alpha gives him. 

Castiel is falling in love with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the chapters following this one will be much more interesting, things are really going to get started next update! Though this chapter was mainly for setting everything up (and one big realization, haha!), I hope you all enjoyed!! <3 Thanks for reading and commenting!!


	14. See Eye to Eye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is temporarily unbeta'd! Sorry xx

Over the course of the next few weeks, Castiel quickly becomes accustomed to his new lifestyle with Dean. They fall into an easy, familiar pattern, as if they’ve been living like this together for years instead of weeks, and Castiel can safely say, as cheesy as it sounds even in his head, that he’s never been happier. They come up with ways to split housework: the two of them fold laundry together in the evenings, and after, Castiel washes the dishes while Dean vacuums, classic rock playing in the background on the radio. He also helps Dean cook, the alpha teaching him all of his tricks and passing on the knowledge he learned in part from his mother. Castiel loves watching Dean cook, and loves learning from him even more. They have dinner together most nights, and on the nights when they’re too exhausted from working, they go out for dinner, usually at Harvelle’s. Before bed, they sometimes watch the movies that Dean was both shocked and appalled to hear Castiel’d never seen. His favorite so far is _Star Wars_ , but what he really loves most about watching these movies is doing so with Dean. Watching Dean’s reactions, his excitement at each coming part, receiving his steadfast refusal to give spoilers, and hearing each time he quotes a character as they say the line -- it’s precious to him, somehow endearing down to the deepest level.

In fact, the best part about his new life is Dean himself. Castiel has become inevitably attached to the alpha; every time Dean gives him the bigger slice of whatever pie they’d baked or smiles at him with the light from the TV highlighting his features, his love for the alpha deepens. It’s something he’s never experienced before, being in love, but as unprecedented as it is, he adores it. He adores _Dean_.

Teaching has also been going smoothly, Castiel quickly adapting to the school environment and falling back into the familiarity of teaching. Anna is great support, helping him on the rare occasion he needs it, while his new friends Meg, Samandriel, and Hannah are wonderful company at lunch. Alistair has not crossed his path since the first day, for which he’s glad. All in all, everything is going amazingly. 

That, however, doesn’t last as long as he wishes. After school gets out one Thursday, Castiel’s sitting at his new desk grading quizzes while listening to Anna tell him about the new apartment that her and her husband Benny are moving into and getting ready for the baby. Listening to her excitement makes him happy, but his mind wanders off and lingers on the subject of apartments halfway through the conversation. He’s been to a couple more appointments with a doctor and physical therapist, both of whom said he should be ready to get his cast off in exchange for a brace on Monday. Once he’s out of the brace, he’ll be able to abandon the crutches altogether, which means that he should be perfectly fine living by himself, no longer needing Dean’s assistance to get in and out of cars or go upstairs. That was why Dean invited him to stay with him, right? Because it wasn’t safe for Castiel to be on his own when he was so injured; well, that and the fact that Castiel had no job and had nowhere to go. Now, there’s no denying that he’s fit and healthy enough to take care of himself, and he now has a job and is earning a sufficient amount of money. Which means, logically....Castiel should get his own apartment. 

The realization sends a sickening jolt through him, his mouth feeling suddenly dry. The _last_ thing Castiel wants to do is move out, but it wouldn’t be fair to Dean to continue staying with him when he’s getting a steady source of income and is no longer too injured to handle himself. Which, if Castiel remembers clearly, were the reasons Dean invited him to come stay with him. Castiel’s chest aches. Living with Dean is without a doubt the best part of his life, the happiest he can ever remember being, but it’s wrong for him to continue to stay when he’s financially straining Dean and the original reasons behind the favor no longer apply. Hell, he didn’t officially move in with Dean like they’re _mates_ , as much as his entire being wishes that that was the case. That would be the only acceptable circumstance where this set-up was prolonged; in their current state, Castiel can now be self-sufficient, and the logical conclusion that brings him to -- would bring anyone to -- is that he should start looking for his own apartment. The realization is like stones in the pit of his stomach, a weight on his shoulders for the rest of the day. Dean definitely notices something is wrong when he picks him up; it might be his scent, or maybe his silence, or maybe it’s his expression, but Dean looks and smells concerned the entire drive home, through dinner, and their evening housework. 

The alpha asks him what’s wrong a couple times, but Castiel always offers him a smile and reassures him that everything is fine each time. He knows he looks downcast and it’s without a doubt bothering Dean, if the way he restlessly flicks through the TV channels as they relax on the couches in the living room is any giveaway. Dean smells upset, his scent sharper and darker than normal, and Castiel wants more than anything to comfort and reassure him, make him smell like sunshine and pine instead of storms. He needs to get a grip on himself and stop worrying Dean. Castiel’s just doing what he needs to do, the right, polite thing, and just because he doesn’t like it doesn’t mean that it should not be done. He props his laptop up against his thighs and scrolls through the next site displaying information on another apartment that’s within his budget -- which, after doing some calculations and factoring in his medical bills, is admittedly quite small. It doesn’t afford him much; there are few apartments he’d be able to afford, and so far, none of them are looking even halfway decent for his expectations. 

Castiel sighs and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms, willing away the headache he can feel brewing between his temples. Dean glances over from where he’s scowling at the TV, his eyebrows pulling together in concern as he meets Castiel’s eyes. “Cas? You alright, buddy?”  
“I believe I have a headache coming on,” Castiel explains, though he suspects Dean wasn’t just referring to his physical condition.  
“Why don’t you head on down to bed? Sleeping always helps me with my headaches,” Dean suggests, and Castiel’s heart twinges at the kindness in the alpha’s eyes, the way he just wants to help Castiel feel better in any way that he can, despite Castiel not telling him the underlying issue. Why hasn’t Castiel talked to Dean about getting his own apartment? It’s definitely something they should discuss. Talking things out with the alpha always makes him feel better, and this should be no exception.  
“I can’t, not yet. I’m looking for an apartment, and the longer I put it off the worse my chances of finding a decent one will be.” Castiel watches Dean’s reaction carefully, the alpha’s eyes widening and his expression falling all at once. His scent grows darker, distinctly upset, and the weight inside Castiel grows heavier accordingly. Dean takes a minute to absorb the information, schooling the brief look of shock and discontent into something more neutral, though his eyes and scent give his displeasure away. Castiel isn’t sure how to interpret that; is Dean upset because Castiel didn’t tell him? Or is it because Castiel is thinking of moving out?  
“Oh. Can I see some of the places you’re looking at?” Dean asks carefully, his tone measured. Castiel nods, biting at his bottom lip as he turns the screen so Dean can see. The alpha looks over a few of the webpages Castiel has open with a disapproving frown; without a doubt, Dean’s drawing the same conclusion he’s come to: that all of the apartments within his price range are terrible. Dean says as much, not beating around the bush, “Those all look pretty awful, buddy. Why do you gotta move out? You could just stay here and not have to waste your money on one of those dumps.”

“I have a source of income and I’m no longer too injured to live without assistance, so it makes sense that I don’t overstay my welcome. You’ve already been so kind and generous, I would hate to further impose when I no longer have any financial or physical reasons to do so.” He explains quietly. Dean meets his eyes, surprise once again evident on his face as he takes in the new information. It’s confusing that Dean hadn’t already considered this, which he clearly hasn’t, given his reaction. Castiel picks at a loose thread on his sweater, waiting for the alpha to respond. Part of him is scared Dean will agree with him and see that logically Castiel should be moving out, but another part of him is fervently hoping Dean has some cure-all reason for why Castiel should stay,

“That’s it? Cas, if you’re worried about that, why don’t you just pay me rent or something and stay here? You won’t have to get a shitty apartment and you won’t go bankrupt either.” Dean smiles hopefully at him and relief floods through him so fast and strong he wants to lean forward and kiss the alpha with all he’s got, though this desire is pretty usual now. Dean wants him to stay! That means he doesn’t need to try and find his own place, not when Dean wants him around and is providing the perfect solution.  
“That sounds wonderful, Dean. Thank you,” the gratitude is thick in his voice and Dean smiles wider in response, patting his shoulder.  
“‘Course. Trust me, you don’t want to be living in one of those places. I bet there are cockroaches, or some other creepy crawly shit.” They both laugh and then Castiel grows more serious. 

“I didn’t want to leave, just so you know. I enjoy your company and I like living here.” _It’s more my home than anything ever has been_ is what he doesn’t say out loud, letting the words sit on the back of his tongue unspoken. Dean’s expression softens and his scent grows distinctly sweeter, warmer.  
“I didn’t want you to leave either, I like having you ‘round,” the alpha replies, and the genuinity hidden beneath the roughness of his voice sends blissful warmth spilling through Castiel’s chest. The alpha rubs the back of his neck, looking away before looking back to Castiel. “You should get some rest, buddy. Especially now that there isn’t any apartment searching to keep you up.” Castiel smiles, closing his laptop and stretching. Dean’s grinning at him and his eyes have this gentle intensity, focused on his and Castiel can almost feel the magnetic pull between them. He wants so badly to close the space between them and kiss Dean goodnight. 

Instead, he wishes the alpha a good night’s rest, and heads to his room reveling in the knowledge that Dean wants him to stay because he likes having him around. The way Dean’d spoke the words was as if they meant so much more than that, so much more the alpha had said in the tone of his voice, the softness of his eyes. 

It’s better than a goodnight kiss.

***

“Holy hell, Cas.” Dean groans and Castiel prays to whatever god is listening that his cheeks aren’t betraying him and turning pink at the downright erotic sound of it. “Okay, your lasagna has officially beaten mine. It’s so good I’m not even mad.” The alpha sighs reverently, stuffing another huge bite of it into his mouth. Castiel grins at Dean’s praise, taking a bite of his own square of lasagna and humming his approval. Dean taught him well. Castiel’s phone vibrates in his pocket and he pulls it out to read the text on the screen. It’s from Anna. _I won’t be coming in on Monday! Babies are on the way! Good luck taking over, I know you’ll do great!_. Castiel smiles, sharing her excitement for the baby boys she’s apparently gone into labor with. He will miss working with her when he goes into work tomorrow, but he’s glad she’s happy and will soon have much anticipated babies to care for. “Whatcha smilin’ about?” Dean asks, swallowing the mouthful of food and reaching for his glass.  
“It’s Anna. She’s officially resigning; she’s gone into labor.” Dean smiles at that -- there’s just something about babies that whenever they are mentioned or brought up make Dean happy, his scent becoming richer and more cloying every time. It’s very endearing, to say the least, and makes some part at Castiel’s core ache for things he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on, not now. Things like one day being swollen carrying Dean’s child, and --

“Well congrats to the happy couple! Does this mean you’ll be filling in for her for good?” Castiel nods, encouraging his thoughts not to stray off.  
“Yes, if my supervisors approve. Speaking of work, you don’t need to be pick me up tomorrow. I have my appointment to get my cast off, so afterwards I’ll just take the bus back here.” Dean sets down his glass, a frown tugging the corners of his mouth down as his eyebrows draw together.  
“Shit! I completely forgot about that! I’ll call Bobby and get a couple hours off so I can take you tomorrow.” Dean says, already standing up to grab the phone on the kitchen counter.  
“That’s not necessary, the hospital is closer to the school than it is Bobby’s, it won’t take me that long to get there on the bus. It’d be illogical for you to drive all the way out and then drive all the way back to work when I can just take a short bus ride there.” Castiel assures him, but Dean’s frown only deepens, his eyebrows pulling lower over his eyes.  
“Yeah, not gonna happen. Your knee still isn’t fully healed, you don’t really know this part of town that well yet, and there are a ton of fucking creeps in that area and on those buses.” Dean grabs the phone and presses the first button, but Castiel grabs it out of his hand, earning a glare from the alpha.  
“I’m perfectly capable of walking from the school to a bus stop and following directions to get to where I’m going, and I can handle myself just fine, I’ve never had any problems with ‘creeps’ before. I can take the bus.” Castiel protests, refusing to give the phone back to Dean as he grabs for it. The alpha huffs, crossing his arms over his chest and shaking his head with slow deliberation, like his resolve is already rock solid and Castiel is being ridiculous by arguing with him about it. 

Which he is definitely _not_. Dean is the one who is being absurd and pointlessly stubborn. Does he not think Castiel can take care of himself? He’s an adult who doesn’t need to be watched over like a child -- he can handle himself without Dean doing everything for him. “Nope. no way am I allowing that to happen, not a chance. I’m taking you, and that’s final.” Dean’s voice is authoritative and commanding, the alpha unmoving with his resolve. His scent is strong and stormy, smelling like thunder and rain, with all the power of a storm beneath his words, in the set of his shoulders, smoldering in his eyes. It sends Castiel’s irritation skyrocketing; Dean really doesn’t think he can handle himself, and it’s more than a little upsetting. Dean’s acting like Castiel’s independence is inconsequential to what the alpha thinks is best, and Castiel isn’t just going to let him think that he’s too weak or incapable to take a damn bus to his appointment, nor is he going to let Dean just make his decisions for him. 

He glares back at the alpha, whose visible calm yet in control demeanor is only serving to further upset him, considering he himself is getting more and more worked up by the second. “I’m not totally useless, I can do stuff for myself, thank you very much.” Castiel bites out, some childish part of himself wanting to see Dean getting as visibly upset as he is now.  
“Pfft, sure, you fell down the stairs a few days ago,” Dean snorts and Castiel clenches his teeth. Dean isn’t even taking him seriously, he must just think that he gets to make the executive decisions about Castiel’s own damn life because Castiel is just too incapable of doing anything for himself. Dean’s remark has him seething, his blood feeling too hot in his veins.  
“I’m taking a bus there and you can’t stop me.” he declares, silently daring Dean to challenge him.  
“No, no you aren’t. There’s no way in hell. I don’t care if you think you know the area or whatever, I’m not letting you take a bus when I can drive you.” Castiel balls his hands into fists, his anger and outrage at the indignity cresting.  
“Could you explain to me why you think I’m too incapable of taking care of myself to even take a bus a little ways across town? I’ve been taking care of myself for years now and you have no right to make my decisions for me because you think I’m too useless to even attend my own doctor’s appointment!” Castiel snaps, the scent of Dean’s anger combining with his own overloading his senses and control. 

Dean takes a few steps closer but Castiel doesn’t back down, instead staring right back at him as the alpha finally cracks. There’s a sharp change in his scent; while still angry, it’s now equally sweet like honey, something that bewilders and disorients himl. “I _care_ about you, goddammit! I don’t think you’re useless or incapable or whatever the fuck, that’s not what this is about! I just fucking care about you, okay? I need to know you’re safe and I need to be with you. I just _need_ to, Cas, fuck. I need _you_. I suck at talking about my feelings and I suck even worse at communication, but I’m sure as hell going to try and make you understand if it’s the last thing I do. I like you Cas, fuck, every fucking day I have to fight the urge to kiss you and I know it’s dumb because you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself but I worry if you’re doing okay and if you’re safe and happy and it’s hard for me to be away from you. I’m sorry I have such a shit way of showing it, but I care about you, Cas. I just… I just care about you.”

All the steam seems to rush out of Dean just like that, leaving his eyes boring into Castiel’s with fervency that he can feel vibrating in his bones. Castiel is shocked, his brain absorbing the information as he drowns in the deep green of Dean’s eyes. This was never about Dean thinking Castiel couldn’t take care of himself; this is about the alpha wanting -- no, _needing_ to take care of him. Because Dean _likes_ him. All the air seems to whoosh out of Castiel’s lungs, a thousand different feelings flooding through him, making his chest ache, his heart pound, warmth spread through him like a wildfire in the summer. Castiel looks into Dean’s eyes and he sees everything he feels for Dean mirrored there, and so he _acts_.

Castiel takes the half step closer necessary to close the space between them, grabs a fistful of Dean’s jacket, and tugs the alpha in. Their lips meet and the touch sends blissful warmth radiating from the point of contact to the rest of his body, the sensation like melting honey. Dean’s lips are pliant, soft, and hot against his own as he twists his head and secures the fit of their lips, his eyes fluttering closed. In the back of his mind he’s thrilled that he’s finally kissing the man he loves, finally getting what he’s desired so much for so long, consciously or not, but all of his focus is on Dean himself. He pulls back so he can see his alpha, and another jolt of euphoria rocks through him at the look of pure awe in Dean’s eyes. The alpha reaches for him, one arm coiling around his waist while the other hand threads through the hair at the base of his skull, drawing Castiel back in. His lips brush Castiel’s as he whispers his name with near reverence, breath hot against Castiel’s sensitized lips. 

Dean wastes no time in sealing their mouths again, this time with renewed fervor and passion. Castiel lets out a breathy moan at the ambrosial scent of Dean, his heavenly scent flooding his senses and enveloping his brain in a blissful fog. The movement allows Dean’s tongue to trace the curve of Castiel’s bottom lip while he tilts Castiel’s head back. Castiel opens further for his alpha, desperate for more of him, to be closer to his mate. Dean licks into his mouth, tongue brushing along the sensitive skin at the inside of his lips before tangling with Castiel’s. Dean tastes even better than he smells, if that’s possible, or maybe Castiel is experiencing some euphoric blend of the two, unable to tell them apart from the pleasure assaulting every one of his senses. Everything is Dean -- the scent, the taste, the feel of his lips, tongue, and hands -- and Castiel wants to lose himself in it, because this feels like finally coming home. 

Dean is home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm late! As compensation, this chapter is extra long and I decided not to leave you guys on a cliff hanger like I originally planned to do ;) Whooo! Over 50,000 words in and they finally get their kiss! Bout time, huh? Hahaha! Also, I'm estimating there will be about 25 chapters in this fic, so about 11 to go, but that's tentative and could change! Thanks so much for reading and commenting, it means a ton! <3
> 
>  


	15. Safety in Numbers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for and beta'd by Astrophilla <3
> 
> WARNING: This chapter has several non-consensual elements to it and an attempted non-con scene. Please read the end notes if you would like more information and a more detailed description of the non-con content of this chapter before reading. If these themes are triggering for you, I'd advise you not to read this chapter or to be cautious in doing so.

Now that they have opened up the floodgates, Castiel can’t get enough of Dean. His kisses are like hits of pure ambrosia, addictive down to every little detail. Castiel could be given an eternity and it wouldn’t be long enough to fully appreciate everything about the kisses they share, from the soft and pliant feel of Dean’s lips, to the musky, woodsy scent that is somehow richer, deeper this close to him, to the way Dean says his name in between kisses. It’s completely unlike anything he’s ever experienced before; even the slightest brush of their lips is satisfying down to his core, makes warmth well up in his chest and a heady feeling that he now knows without a doubt is love wash over him. Castiel isn’t sure for how much longer they just stand there, kissing until they’re breathless, exploring every inch of the other’s mouth while committing the taste and feel to memory. 

Yes, Castiel thinks, pulling back to meet Dean’s gaze. The open awe and adoration he sees there echoes his own for the alpha, reflected back in those irises the color of verdant forests. He’s never going to get enough of this. He’s never going to get enough of _Dean_.

***

They kiss all of the time they’re together, and despite just over twelve hours passing since the first one they’d shared, Castiel can already see how these kisses are quickly becoming as natural and vital a part of their lives as breathing. They’ve shared plenty, all of which have set a distinct and heady brand of fire either spreading fast through him or smoldering low behind his sternum. He closes his eyes and sighs as Dean runs the tip of his tongue along the roof of his mouth one last time before he’s got to get out of the car and head into the school. “I’ll see you soon, Cas,” Dean calls as he climbs out of the Impala and gathers his things. Castiel smiles, still dazed by the kiss they’d just shared, and says goodbye to the alpha before he drives off. 

Castiel was able to move his appointment to 5:00 instead of 1:30 so that it would accommodate both his and Dean’s work schedules. After they had a discussion about the issue that they’d argued over, he’d decided to agree to being driven at the usual time Dean comes to pick him up. Dean had agreed Castiel was more than capable of going to the appointment by himself, but Castiel could see him wrestling with his instincts to protect and be close to him, and he decided that this time, he would let it go. Over time, Castiel thinks that Dean’ll realize he isn’t in any danger when he’s alone, but for the time being, when he’s still injured and somewhat new to being an omega, letting Dean drive him shouldn’t be too bad. If it’ll ease the alpha’s worries and give them more time together, Castiel doesn’t see the harm in it.

The day passes more slowly than usual, considering it’s a test day. Instead of lecturing, Castiel does rounds of the classroom to make sure no one is cheating, then takes a seat at his desk. He reads while he waits for each period to pass by, and while he enjoys it, it’s not nearly as interesting as engaging with students. He grows bored by fourth period, opting instead to begin grading the tests from the earlier periods until the end of the day. Once sixth period lets out, Castiel collects the last round of tests and adds them to his already daunting stack to grade. A quick glance at his watch tells him that he has almost two hours to make some headway before Dean comes to pick him up for his appointment. Resigned to the monotonous process without Anna to keep him company, Castiel gets to work, wishing she was still here to talk with him and make things go by more enjoyably. 

The classroom seems awfully empty and quiet like this. It’s his first time being completely alone in it, and he’s so used to Anna’s cheerful chatter that the silence is unsettling. He finds his mind wandering as he scans through question after question and reads each short answer. Predictably, they immediately go to Dean, and the longing inside Castiel increases exponentially. Images of Dean kissing Castiel when he gets in the car fill his mind, memories of the woodsy undertones Dean’s scent gets when his lips are on Castiel’s flooding to the surface. How much longer until Dean’ll be here and Castiel can make good on his fantasy of threading his fingers through soft hair and sucking the alpha’s bottom lip between his own? Another glance at his watch gives him his answer: too long. Castiel isn’t sure what’s gotten into him, but the more time he spends with Dean, the longer he stays with him, the harder it is to be away from him for any length of time.

Castiel manages to fully absorb himself in trying to decode one student’s nearly illegible handwriting when the door to the classroom opens. Expecting Dean, he calls out a greeting without looking up just yet, finishing up the last few sentences before he’ll hold Dean’s face between his palms and kiss him like he’s been wanting to all day now. The alpha doesn’t respond, which catches Castiel’s attention immediately, but then the scent hits him and Castiel’s confusion blows up into full out trepidation. The vaguely familiar and completely nauseating scent of the alpha, pungent and rancid as it settles thickly in his lungs sends warning bells going off in his head. _Danger!_ his brain is yelling at him, his instincts to flee springing up and making the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end, a shiver rippling down his spine. He wants to gag and run, but restrains himself from doing either, trying to keep his panicked reaction inside. Fear makes Castiel’s mouth go dry as he looks up and pushes back from his desk to stand and face Alistair. The alpha is sauntering over with a lewd smirk on his thin lips, his expression unnerving. 

“Alistair. Can I help you with something?” Castiel asks, fighting to keep his voice from betraying how deeply unsettled he is by Alistair’s presence. His instincts to flee are only intensifying as the alpha chuckles at the mistrust and suspicion that has managed to seep through Castiel’s carefully chosen tone.  
“Hmmm, as a matter of fact, I believe you can,” the man purrs, his voice nasally and grating. Castiel fights the urge to flinch back when the alpha closes the space between them, just a foot away and towering over him. His horrid scent is so strong Castiel feels bile rise up in his throat, his lungs burning as he tries to take shallow breaths.  
“What do you want?” Castiel asks, voice flat. He takes a step back when Alistair takes another forward, trying to maintain as much distance between them as possible  
“Just to have a small chat with you, sweet little omega.” he replies, again taking a step closer. Castiel takes two steps back, his heart rate spiking and his breathing growing heavier. He swallows hard, his throat too hot and and tight with the fear and panic constricting it. In the back of his mind, he’s hyper aware of his surroundings, how Alistair has backed him into a corner opposite the door, the alpha blocking his path to escape. There’s a predatory gleam in Alistair’s beady eyes, and the malicious curve of his lips and sickeningly sultry tone of his voice is enough to have Castiel dizzy with the need to get away. He feels like a trapped animal, pinned by the gaze of a creature that wants to devour him. 

Castiel’s eyes dart furtively around the room, in search of some sort of exit around the alpha, or maybe a weapon. Realistically, he knows he wouldn’t beat in Alistair in any physical struggle, considering he is not only smaller, but injured as well. But at the same time, there’s no route of escape. It’s futile to think Alistair doesn’t have some not-so-hidden agenda, Castiel isn’t stupid. He just hopes that whatever it is, he can find a way out of it. “You really do smell extraordinary, Castiel,” the alpha hums, stepping even closer. Castiel has run out of room to step away from his advances, now backed into the corner. His back presses against the wall and another shot of fear rocks through him, hysteria rendering him mute, his pulse pounding in his ears. “Your scent is so decadent, I could just…” Alistair bends his head down and scents Castiel’s throat, making an obscene, low noise in the back of his throat. Castiel is frozen, his mind racing a mile a minute trying to figure out what to do. He needs to get _away_.

All physical options—fleeing and fighting—are out of the question. So that leaves reason. It’s the only straw Castiel has to grasp at, the one thing that his terrified and overwhelmed brain can come up with. 

“You don’t want to do this,” Castiel pants, his breath coming in heaving gasps. Alistair growls in his ear, scraping his teeth along Castiel’s neck, breath hot and sour against his skin. Castiel shudders.  
“Oh, but I do. You’re such a pretty little thing, and unmated, too. Irresistible,” Alistair rasps, pinning Castiel to the wall with his body so that he can’t move. Panic overwhelms him, his instincts on the verge of overriding his rational mind and taking over in one last desperate attempt to save himself.  
“I will—” Castiel chokes out, not sure what threat he was going to try and make.  
“You will present yourself to me, is what you’ll do,” Alistair purrs, running his hand down along Castiel’s side. “There are so many ways I want you. You could get on your hands and knees with that perky little ass in the air for me, or I could bend you over your desk and take you there.” Alistair groans with need, grinding his groin against Castiel’s thigh. Castiel barely manages to swallow, overcome with panic, unable to focus on anything but how Alistair is going to rape him if he can’t get out of here _right now_.

In a sudden burst of clarity amid the hysterical haze his instincts have created in his brain, Castiel remembers that he isn’t completely defenseless. He sure as hell isn’t just going to bend over and give up—not a chance. He’s going to fight with all he has, his chances at success be damned. Castiel snaps into action the second Alistair starts to grope his ass, slamming his good knee up into Alistair’s groin with as much force as he can. Alistair roars in pain, immediately releasing Castiel and dropping to his knees. Because luck is never with him, the movement caused Castiel to put his full weight on his bad knee, and as soon as Alistair lets go of him, his legs buckle and he collapses, pain flaring up from his injured knee so quickly it stuns him. 

Alistair is on him in a heartbeat, his scent now distinctly furious. The alpha snarls, pinning Castiel down and wrapping a hand around his throat to keep him from struggling. He still tries, thrashing with all he has in an attempt to dislodge the alpha straddling him, his pulse slamming a violent rhythm in his veins. The pain is only second to the fresh wave of panic that bears down on him upon realizing just how compromising his position is. He struggles harder, ignoring the way it sends more pain burning in his ribs and reverberating in his knee. Self preservation shuts down every part of his brain that isn’t his instinct to fight back. Castiel manages to slam his fist into Alistair’s jaw, but instead of deterring the alpha, it only makes him angrier. He snarls, tightening his grip on Castiel’s throat so that he chokes, a swarm of black dots encroaching at the edges of his vision as oxygen deprivation weakens him further. “Submit, you little bitch!” Alistair demands as Castiel straddles the line between consciousness and unconsciousness, unable to even distinguish between the words. 

Castiel must black out for some unknown amount of time, because when he’s jolting awake, it’s to the downright heavenly scent of Dean Winchester. His eyes roll blindly, searching, until they fall on _his_ alpha, his beautiful alpha holding Alistair pinned against the floor next to him with one hand wrapped around his throat, slamming his head into the floor to punctuate each furiously roared death threat. It takes Castiel a minute to understand what he’s seeing, for his mind to fill in the blanks from when he blacked out to now. He gasps violently for air, sucking it in heaving gulps into his oxygen deprived lungs, his trachea aching. The pain it brings sends him into a coughing fit, and Dean looks up worriedly, pausing in bashing Alistair’s head into the ground. He seems to make a decision, his concern for Castiel winning out as he slams Alistair’s skull back against the floor one more time, knocking him out with one hard punch to his face that most likely breaks his left cheekbone, if the sound it makes is anything to go by. “ _Castiel_ , Dean gasps, immediately at his side. 

“Dean,” Castiel breathes, relief dizzyingly strong flooding through him as soon as he finds Dean’s eyes. His alpha smells intensely of spice and honey, the thunderstorms edge ebbing as his attention focuses completely on Castiel. Dean’s eyes break away from his just long enough to take in the bruises that must already be showing on his neck from Alistair’s hands, but the spark of rage that flares up in Dean’s eyes doesn’t last long before concern and worry replaces it.  
“Fuck, how hurt are you? Shit, that’s a stupid question. I’m calling a hospital right now, just keep breathing and staying with me, okay? Can you do that for me, buddy?” Dean asks, one hand brushing comfortingly through Cas’ hair while the other dials on his cell phone. Castiel shakes his head, reaching up to grab Dean’s bicep.  
“No, Dean. I’m okay. I don’t need to go to the hospital,” he promises, and it’s true. Everything aches, but there’s no damage bad enough to warrant medical attention. Some ice and painkillers is all he’ll need. Dean’s eyes narrow doubtfully, but he does pause in dialing the number.  
“You don’t look so good, buddy. Maybe we should—”  
“No, I’m really fine. He didn’t hurt me that bad, just gave me a few bruises. I’d much rather just get out of here,” Castiel says, because after what just happened, the only person he wants to see is Dean. No paramedics, especially if he doesn’t need them. Dean stares at him, eyes searching his own, but then nods in understanding.  
“Let’s go. I want to get you home.” Dean declares, and Castiel can’t think of anything he wants more, than to go home and be with his alpha.

Castiel gets to his feet with a hand from Dean, proving to the alpha that he really is fine, apart from the bruises he can feel forming on his throat and the dull ache in his knee. He hopes it isn’t hurt bad enough to further delay his transition to a fabric brace instead of the cast. “We need to call the police so they can arrest this fucking son of a bitch, and then I’m taking you home and I’m gonna take care of you.” Dean promises, wrapping an arm around Castiel’s waist and holding him close. Castiel nods, burying his face against Dean’s neck, breathing in the comforting, heady scent of his alpha, allowing it to calm his nerves and ground him in reality. He’s okay. Dean’s here, Alistair’s unconscious, and everything is going to be okay now. Dean calls the police and holds Castiel close while they wait for them to get here, his face buried in Castiel’s hair, as if the alpha needs the reassurance of Castiel’s scent to remind himself that Castiel is okay. 

Though he’s considerably shaken up from the experience, he really is okay. Dean got to him just in time. His alpha being here with him also helps immensely, Dean refusing to let go of him even when the police arrive and ask what happened. The staff members who are still here have come to gawk, a small, murmuring crowd of them in the doorway composed of people Castiel has only ever seen in passing. Two policemen cuff Alistair and take him away, then a cop with a graying mustache declares that Alistair is being arrested on grounds of assault and attempted rape He escorts Dean and Castiel out to the parking lot, where two police cruisers have been hastily parked against the curb. They agree to meet him at the police station, turning down the officer’s invitation to drive them there. Once they arrive and head into a room for questioning, Castiel explains what happened and makes his statement while Dean rubs a hand in soothing circles at his lower back the whole time. He guides Castiel through the standard procedure for pressing charges after he has been examined for evidence and photos have been taken of his bruised neck. After they’ve both made their statements, signed and read several papers, and have been informed of how the legal process will proceed, they are finally allowed to leave. Dean keeps an arm around his waist as he walks him out to where the Impala is parked against the curb, helping him inside before he gets behind the wheel. 

Dean doesn’t make any move to turn the car on, instead turning to Castiel with serious, worried eyes. “Cas, buddy, talk to me. Are you sure you’re okay?” Dean asks softly, earnesty burning in his voice. His scent is sweet like honey yet spicy like cloves with affection and concern. Castiel scoots closer to the alpha on the bench seat, and Dean immediately reaches for him, pulling him close. Castiel rests his face against Dean’s collarbone, breathing in his scent until the memory of Alistair’s nauseating scent has been eradicated from his mind. He finally relaxes in Dean’s arms, exhaling deeply before tilting his head up to meet Dean’s eyes.  
“I really am fine, Dean. I was shaken up, but I’m much better now that he’s gone and you are here,” Castiel promises, and he means it. The danger is gone and his mate—not his mate, there goes his brain again— _Dean_ is with him. Dean came in just in time, Dean saved him. He’s immensely grateful, and he tells Dean as much. 

“Shit, I’m sorry I didn’t get there sooner.” Dean inhales sharply, his body tensing with rising anger. “I could _kill_ him for what he did to you. He’s lucky I only got in as many hits as I did.” Dean’s starting to shake with suppressed rage, his scent growing stormy again. Castiel shushes him, kissing him gently and reminding him that he’s okay. It quickly calms the alpha down, Dean’s muscles tensing and his scent clearing up. “I’m the only one I want to smell on you, not him,” Dean whispers, running a thumb over the line of Castiel’s collarbone. Castiel remembers Alistair had scented him earlier and that if his scent is still lingering, it must only be contributing to Dean’s fury. The last thing Castiel wants to smell like is that filthy knothead, and he feels unclean thinking of his scent on his skin. 

“Then scent mark me, Dean.” Castiel breathes, tilting his head back to expose his throat. Dean sucks in a sharp breath at the distinctly submissive gesture, neither of them mistaking its significance. Castiel isn’t bearing his throat for a mating mark, but scent marking in of itself is a serious and intimate gesture that displays trust and possessiveness.  
“Cas,” Dean replies, and then ducks his head to scent mark Castiel, his breath warm and his scent growing headier, more pure and intense as he leaves it on Castiel’s skin. Dean nuzzles his throat before pulling back, his pupils so dilated only a thin ring of jade green is visible around each of them. “Scent me, Cas. Please,” Dean gasps quietly, and Castiel doesn’t need any more of a go ahead. He returns the favor, scenting at Dean’s throat, breathing in his alpha’s downright ambrosial musk until he’s content. When he pulls back, Dean captures his lips in a passionate yet gentle kiss, each movement deliberate and lingering. Castiel eventually has to separate for air. “Let’s get you home. We can continue this later.” His alpha promises, reluctantly releasing him to start the car. Castiel hums his agreement. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard a better idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ADDITIONAL WARNING NOTES:
> 
> Alistair attempts to rape and forcefully mate Castiel. He gets as far as groping him with both of their clothes on and says several explicit things on what he plans to do to Castiel. Alistair does NOT actually rape and/or mate Castiel. 
> 
>  
> 
> END NOTES:
> 
> Thanks for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting! I love you guys so much! <3


	16. Domino Effect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by and written for Astrophilla <3

Dean is a whirlwind tearing through the kitchen as soon as they get home. Of course, that’s only after he’s made sure Cas is properly bundled up in blankets on the couch. He puts water to boil on the stove, then gets to work beating the ice cube tray out against the edge of the sink. He grabs a handful of ice and stuffs it into a sandwich baggie, wrapping it in a dishtowel to create a makeshift icepack. While the water boils, Dean hurries over to Cas’ side, running a hand through his disheveled hair as he gently examines the omega’s neck. Rage simmers deep in Dean’s gut as he carefully runs his fingers over the patchwork of purple and green bruises marring the skin just an inch or so below Cas’ chin. They’re starting to show more now that the blood is pooling at the surface, and just the sight of it fills Dean with wrath so fierce he’s trembling with the need to finish what he started with Alistair. He draws in deep breaths through his nose, grappling with everything inside him to remain calm. His scent in itself is probably making Castiel unsettled, and it’s no doubt the last thing the omega needs right now. 

One look at Cas’ wide, oceanic eyes and all the fight whooshes out of him. Fuck. Cas needs him, and that’s all that matters right now. Being here for and taking care of him. The rage fizzles out as he focuses completely on tending to Cas’ wounds, on caring for and protecting his omega. Every instinct in Dean’s body is drilling him to take Cas somewhere safer, to Dean’s bedroom, to lock the door and keep Cas sheltered in their nest, where no one could ever hurt him. Every fiber of Dean’s being aches to comfort him, to keep him away from the rest of the world and hold him close. Dean holds the icepack to the worst of the bruising, inhaling a deep breath of Castiel’s scent. He smells like himself, no more traces of fear or distress or pain, and just that alone soothes Dean to his core. “Dean.” He looks up at his name, and Castiel rests his hand on his shoulder. “I’m okay, really. You don’t need to worry, I’m completely alright.” Dean nods, allowing Cas’ words to soak into him and ease his festering worry and concern.

The kettle starts to whistle and Dean gets up to take it off the heat and pour Castiel a cup of tea. It’s lemon chamomile, the only tea he has in the house, and that’s only because Sam left it from when he was over; Dean’s not much of a tea drinker. He brings the steaming mug over and hands it to Cas, who accepts it with a grateful smile and takes a sip. Seeing Cas bundled up safely on Dean’s couch, his wounds tended to, drinking the tea Dean made for him is what finally allows Dean to untense and wrap his mind around the fact that Cas is right, everything is going to be okay. Cas’ scent contributes to that largely; the omega smells beautiful and heavenly as always, but now his sugar-sweet scent smells distinctly contented. It settles Dean on a visceral level, and he feels the band that had manifested around his chest since he first found Cas that afternoon finally loosen. 

“You smell absolutely lovely with my scent on you, Dean,” Castiel comments, taking another drink from his cup. “Even more so than usual.” He sets it down and draws the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip to catch a stray drop of tea, and Dean tracks the movement, swallowing hard.   
“I could say the same,” Dean breathes, dipping his head to move the ice pack to a new spot so he can scent the base of Cas’ throat. _Fuck_. Dean is hundred percent sure Cas has never smelled better, with his redolent scent of mint and gardenia rich and heady as ever, combined perfectly with his own. It completely overshadows the residual panic in his scent from earlier today. Over all, Castiel smells like him. Castiel smells like his _mate_. The thought sends something hot, burning like wildfire sweeping through Dean, a hundred different emotions ballooning in his chest, all of them thrilling and satisfying, igniting him from the inside. Dean inhales again, scenting Castiel more heavily, resisting the urge to run the flat of his tongue up the length of Cas’ neck. Yes, Cas smells like mate, his mate, and Dean has never smelled anything better. He feels something inside him shift, and the heat grows stronger, coiling in his belly and burning in his fingertips. With a jolt of shock, Dean realizes what’s going on through the blissful haze Cas’ pheromones have created in his head, registering his body’s response for exactly what it is and connecting the dots from his enhanced senses to the increased strength of his instincts:

Dean is going into rut. 

“Shit!” Dean gasps, forcing himself to take a couple steps back from Cas, who is somehow smelling impossibly better and better by the second. He already feels himself getting hard in his jeans, and he knows he doesn’t have much longer before Cas being right here next to him and smelling just like his mate becomes too much for him to handle. He’s never been around anyone but Sam or his Dad while in rut, and sure as hell not an omega, an omega that’s not just any omega but _his_ omega. Fuck, yeah, he needs to get as far away from Cas as he can, which is a lot easier said than done, considering every part of him wants nothing more than to be as close to Cas as he can get.   
“Dean?” Cas asks, eyebrows pulling together and his eyes widening in concern as realization dawns on him. “Oh!”  
“I’ve gotta go, Cas, I’ll be in my room until the rut suppressors kick in, okay? Just stay here, I’ll be out when it’s safe,” Dean pants, already scrambling to his feet and making a beeline for the stairs. The last thing he wants to do is leave Cas, but he will not allow himself to be near him when he’s edging into such an unstable, dangerous state. He’s going to take every precaution to keep away until the suppressors are in effect so he doesn’t do something stupid while he isn’t in full control of himself. Dean rushes up the stairs and locks himself in his room, immediately going to the nightstand and ripping the drawer open to rummage through in search of the pills. His searching fingers find the smooth black bottle of suppressors that he hasn’t used in around four months and he pops the cap off and swallows two down dry. 

Chest heaving, Dean sits down on the edge of his bed, body burning from the inside. His dick is rock hard in his jeans, uncomfortably constrained by the now seemingly rough fabric of his boxers. He mashes his eyes shut and exhales slowly through his nose, fighting the urge to rip off his pants and jerk himself off to ease that burning, if just for a few seconds. He’s in control, yeah, that’s right, he’s definitely not going to give in and do what his body wants. He carefully keeps his mind away from the omega downstairs. His mate— _fuck_. Not his mate, not his mate, not his mate. Dean’s dick throbs in protest, and his instincts don’t give a single fuck about his denial. Gritting his teeth, he forces his thoughts anywhere, anywhere but on where his rut wants them to go. He wants to strip out of his clothes and find release, chase the burning away and give into his instinct to breed his mate, but if he can just steel himself against it until the meds kick in….

Five minutes pass and Dean is on the verge of dying—that’s the only possible explanation for what he’s feeling. Cas’ scent is still fresh in his mind and there’s a chance he’s going to explode from sheer need to be with _Castiel_ (who is not his mate, his brain needs to get with the program) if he doesn’t do something. The lack of control over himself is one of the worst parts of being in rut, right next to not having a mate to take care of and fuck. The latter is somehow infinitely worse this time around, and he has the sneaking suspicion it’s because something deep inside him has decided its mate is just downstairs. The thought makes his head spin and his oversensitive cock strain against the confines of his itchy, too-confining boxers. 

Ten more minutes pass and Dean can feel the arousal start to ebb, slowly but surely. He breathes out a shaky breath, blinking sweat out of his eyes. Taking a shower sounds like a really good idea right now, an ice cold shower, hell yeah. On that thought, he grabs a clean pair of his softest boxers and his loosest holey sweats and a worn AC/DC t-shirt and heads to the bathroom attached to his bedroom. Once he’s under the blessedly freezing spray, he makes sure to scrub his skin with the bar of soap to rid him of any lingering scent of arousal and rut to make things easier on Cas. He doesn’t know how the omega would react to smelling him in rut without the suppressors to mask it, and he sure as hell isn’t going to imagine it, not if he wants his boner to ever go down. Fucking ruts. When Dean gets out, he’s going to take another pill, just to be on the safe side. He _can’t_ slip up, not with Cas here. He’d never forgive himself if he were to lose control with Cas around, so he’s going to do everything in his power to prevent it, even if it’s against the recommended dosage on the back of the bottle. 

By the time he’s finished with his shower, Dean can feel the suppressors have finally kicked in and are working away. While all of his senses are still too intense, they’re bearable, and he no longer feels like he’s burning from the inside out. His instincts to find Cas and take care of him, however, are full blown, made even stronger because of his sudden rut. Which is quite a feat, considering how strong they were even before he went into rut. Rut suppressors work differently than heat suppressors, he remembers. For whatever reason, heat suppressors are simply more effective, because they are able to nearly extinguish the presence of heat in an omega, while rut suppressors only really numb the desire to knot and breed. Heat suppressors are consequently more powerful and therefore more dangerous, with worse side effects, but at times like this, Dean is wishing that rut suppressors worked the same way; he could handle a little danger and potential vomiting or dizziness if it meant that he could function without the influence of his rut. While he won’t feel the need to fuck until he passes out, he’s still going to be more territorial, aggressive, and protective, especially since Cas is in his care this time around. Tying the drawstrings of his sweats and searching for the bottle of suppressors, he figures there are worse things he could be.

He swallows down one more pill with a mouthful of cold water from the sink, and then surrenders in his fight against himself and heads downstairs to find Cas. His erection has disappeared, his libido back to what it normally is, but the mounting need to take care of and be close to his omega is stronger than ever. He finds Cas right where he left him, curled up on the couch with his cup of tea cradled in his hands, watching some cooking show on TV. Pride makes Dean’s chest swell at the sight, a sudden flood of adoration and affection rushing over him as he regards his omega, his mate beautiful as ever, with his perpetual sex hair and look of intelligent concentration in those baby blues as he watches the show. Dean can’t believe this omega is his. _Fuck, you’ve got to be kidding_ , the coherent, rational part of his brain growls. _We really need to stop with the possessive pronouns._ “Hey, buddy, how you feelin’?” Dean asks, taking a seat next to Cas and looking him over assessingly. Cas sits up a little straighter, reaching over to set the mug down on the coffee table before returning Dean’s searching gaze.   
“I feel completely fine, Dean. Are you doing okay with the suppressors?” Dean nods, forgetting how to make his tongue and lips form words because he’s just gotten a breath of Cas’ scent. It smells like fucking ambrosia, like heaven and paradise and Dean wants to be completely covered in it. It’s creating all kinds of feedback loops in his brain and he feels very nearly entranced by it, blissed out. Cas smells like home, like mate, like everything Dean wants and needs. His instincts to protectprovidecare, to be the alpha his omega needs are roaring to life inside him. It’s like someone’s struck a tuning fork to his bones, the way he’s acutely aware of Cas—his physical presence, his feelings, his wants and needs. Dean’s never felt so connected to someone before, and it’s positively fucking amazing. It makes him ache to complete the bond, to take his mate and— 

Mother of fuck. The rational part of his brain steps back and shakes him loose from the endorphin and oxytocin fueled haze. It doesn’t at all diminish the strength of the connection or Dean’s awareness of Cas, but it does allow him to focus, at least for now. He’s still with it, he was just a little taken aback by the strength of his initial reaction to Cas because of his rut, yeah, that’s all. Cas is looking at him worriedly, and Dean realizes he hasn’t replied to the omega’s question yet. “Yeah, they’re working great. Are you hungry?” he asks, suddenly worried that Cas hasn’t had enough to eat. Dean needs to get some food into him! Who knows when the last time he ate was? “I’m gonna make dinner, you’re probably starving,” Dean says, rising from the couch and grabbing Cas’ empty cup to take to the kitchen.   
“I can help,” Cas offers, and while Dean’s stupid instincts want him to do it by himself and show his mate just how well he can provide for him, his higher cognitive functions think that Cas helping is a good idea—Cas makes it more enjoyable, and helps get dinner on the table far faster than when he works by himself.   
“Sounds great, buddy. What are you in the mood for? Stir fry? Tacos maybe?” Dean opens up the fridge, and then scowls at the contents, or, well, lack of contents. Shit, he was supposed to go shopping today. All they have is a nearly empty carton of milk, half an onion, and leftover ribs that are definitely no longer safe to eat. “Well shit. Looks like we’re ordering a pizza.” Cas chuckles and Dean is relieved, but still upset with himself for not having food for the omega.

Dean orders a pizza and makes sure Cas is back under the blankets on the couch, comfortable and armed with another cup of tea Dean made for him. The two watch the end of a James Bond movie that’s on TV as they wait for the pizza to get there, and Dean wrestles with the urge to curl himself around Cas and hold him close, tucked in against his chest so he can keep him warm, safe, and happy. The desire persists, Dean’s self control diminishing by the minute, until the doorbell rings, a sufficient distraction for the moment. Dean jumps up from the couch a little too fast, possibly startling Cas, and then heads to the front door with an “I’ve got it!” called over his shoulder. He unlocks the door and opens it to find an alpha standing before him with a pizza box held in his arms, looking vaguely bored. Dean’s eyes narrow and he nearly gets whiplash from the sharp 180 his instincts turn. A growl is rising up in his throat as he takes in the alpha he’s identified as a threat to his omega’s safety, teeth clenching with the urge to repress the sound. Dean shoves his body into the gap between the door and the doorframe to block the alpha’s way, skin prickling with tension when he sees the alpha’s eyes widen as he scents the air, no doubt picking up Cas’ scent from inside the house. The man clears his throat, turning his eyes back to Dean’s reluctantly, and rattles off the amount Dean owes him for the food.   
Dean’s torn between rational thought and overwhelming instinct, heightened by his rut. The alpha finally seems to notice his defensive posturing—how Dean’s chest is puffed out, his shoulders squared, chin jutted out defiantly—and now he’s returning it, unable to resist his own natural response to Dean’s aggressive instincts. In the back of his mind he knows this is ridiculous, that this kid is just here to do his job and wants the money so he can leave, and it’s only when he pays attention to that quiet voice of reason that he’s able to get a hold of himself enough to grab the pizza box and stalk back into the house. Maybe if he can just get a few breaths of air without the alpha’s scent, his mind’ll clear up enough to finish the transaction and send the kid on his way.

Dean’s setting the pizza on the kitchen table and scanning the counter for his wallet when he hears Cas’ gravelly voice from the doorway. He spins on his heels and finds the omega standing in the doorframe, searching for the right bills in his wallet while rumbling some apology about keeping him waiting. The fucking alpha is looking at Cas like he’s something to eat, pupils blown wide in arousal, and something inside Dean _snaps_. Dean’s at Cas’ side in a second, shoving himself between his omega and the alpha looking at him like he’s a piece of meat, and snarls, slamming one hand against his sternum. The alpha stumbles back a step and Dean immediately steps in front of Cas, back to his omega, and growls, taking a protective stance. “Dean!” Cas yells, trying to get his attention, but Cas doesn’t understand. He’s in danger, the alpha could _hurt_ him, and Dean sure as fuck isn’t going to let the knothead get even an inch closer to _his_ mate. The alpha straightens up and glares at Dean, a low growl sounding in the back of his throat, and Cas is saying something that doesn’t register, but by the urgent tone of his voice, it’s important. What’s more important in the moment right now though is fighting this fucker off and keeping him away him Cas.

A quick assessment of the situation tells Dean that he’ll win this, without a doubt. He’s taller, bigger, and stronger than the other alpha, and that’s not even including the added strength his rut will give him to protect his mate. The alpha steps closer and Dean nearly lunges for his throat, but an insistent tug at the back of his shirt brings him up short. “Dean! You need to calm down!” Cas is shouting, his fist clenched in the back of Dean’s shirt, trying to stop him from proceeding. Dean wants to turn around and comfort him, but he’s not going to turn his back to the alpha until he’s been incapacitated. “ _Dean!_ Cas says again, tone bordering on pleading, and that’s what finally snaps Dean out of his rut-fueled haze. He comes back to himself at the sound of Cas’ distress, realizes that no, he is not going to tear the alpha’s throat out, even though he still wants to.   
“Leave,” Dean grits out, shoving over a fistful of money at the still very pissed off alpha. He accepts it with a glare and Dean forces himself to stop posturing formidably, so the alpha’ll take the hint and just get back in his car. He does, stomping back down the steps with a final angry huff. Dean immediately pulls Cas inside and slams the door shut, locking both locks, and then he’s examining Cas for injury, scenting him anxiously.   
“I’m fine, Dean, I’m fine,” Cas promises, running a hand through Dean’s hair. Dean nuzzles the hollow at the base of his throat, determined to find out for himself, and that’s when he realizes why Cas is somehow, impossibly, smelling better and better with each second. _That’s_ why the alpha had caught his scent and became instantly aroused; Cas is going into heat. 

***

A half hour later, they’re sitting at the kitchen table together, finally eating their reheated pizza as they make conversation. Dean’s instincts and feelings and desires are a mess; they’re both on meds to keep biology at bay, both still dealing with the residual effects of their heat and rut, and all he can think is what if it were different. He’s watching Cas take a bite of pizza, a thoughtful expression on his face as he considers what they’re talking about, and just the sight of him is enough to remind him. He looks at Cas and he just wants, he just needs, because rut aside, Cas is everything. What if it were different, he thinks, and they didn’t have to put all this biology crap aside. What if for once, Dean’s instincts were actually in line with what he wants, with what he needs. With what _Cas_ wants and needs. There’s a nagging at the edge of his conscious, suggesting that maybe they _are_.

Dean chews introspectively.

What if it were different. 

What if they _are_ different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love you all very much xx


	17. Burning Bridges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't beta'd, sorry about that!

***

The week that Castiel is in heat -- which he went into a month and a half earlier than he should have, considering the date of his previous heat and the three-month gap that’s supposed to be between each heat -- is a little tense for both him and Dean. They both take the week off from work, leaving them to be in close quarters, their instincts barely subdued with the help of strong meds. For the majority of the week, they keep to their own rooms, Castiel sleeping most of the time only to wake up drenched in slick, heat burning him alive, his cock hard and curved against his stomach. It’s near torture, knowing that his alpha is just a couple rooms over and could give him everything he wants, everything he needs, could mate him and satisfy the ever present burning, yet he can’t have him. 

After the week Castiel spends wracked by his heat, he and Dean finally are able to quit keeping themselves from each other. The next month is without a doubt the best one of Castiel’s life. He’s in love with Dean Winchester, and now he can act on that love. He’s been in a relationship before, yes, but this, this here with Dean, feels brand new, like a relationship _should_ be. He’s never felt like this, he’s absolutely sure of it. What he’d felt for Balthazar can’t even compare. Being with Dean romantically is pure bliss. He’s never wanted or needed someone so much before, nor has everything he’s done with them, no matter what it is, made him feel so deliriously euphoric. Castiel wonders if this is how newly mated pairs feel, like every moment with their mate is the best moment ever. It’s like he’s in this constant state of elation and happiness, now that he and Dean are romantically involved. At work, his colleagues have noticed and commented in the change in his mood, and they haven’t even seen him when he’s actually with Dean. Castiel can only imagine how in-love he must look with Dean to those around him, because he knows he feels it more intensely than he’d thought possible.

Castiel can’t find words to explain it, this almost magnetic pull between him and his alpha. When they watch movies after work like usual, they almost always end up entwined, Castiel in Dean’s lap, or the two of them lying side by side on the couch, Castiel the little spoon with Dean’s arms wrapped around him and their legs tangled together. Often times Castiel misses large parts of the movies because he and Dean end up making out, Dean’s full, perfect lips and hot, wet mouth and tongue exploring his own more than a sufficient distraction. It’s as if they must be touching at nearly all times, this connection between them practically demands it. When they’re driving somewhere, Dean keeps one hand laced with Castiel’s, or rests his palm on top of Castiel’s thigh. When they’re eating out, Dean keeps one arm wrapped around Castiel’s shoulders, or slung along the back of his chair. In public, they’re always holding hands, Dean glaring at any alphas whose gazes linger too long on Castiel for his liking. Not to mention the kisses, all of which Castiel adores, from the sleepy, slow and lingering goodmorning ones, to the hot, sensual, passionate goodnight ones and the many in between. He can’t get enough. He can’t get enough of _Dean_. 

This past month has been like nirvana with Dean, and Castiel can’t imagine what it was like to not be drunk on his love for the alpha, on his alpha’s touch, or scent, or affection. For over a month now, Castiel’s instincts to be mated to Dean, to join themselves in the deepest bond possible have been all-consuming, growing miraculously stronger with every day. Everything about Dean screams _mate_ and _mine_ , and if Dean’s actions are anything to go by, Dean’s been feeling the same way for him. They’ve spent hours scent marking each other, sucking bruising kisses onto each other’s necks, laving at the existing marks they’d already put there, nosing and nuzzling each other’s throats until the other was drenched in his partner’s scent. That and their open-mouthed kisses are as far as they have gone so far. Castiel has loved the intimacy they’ve shared thus far, from the kisses to the scent marking. He knows he will love the stronger brand of closeness to come when they take their relationship further, which he believes shouldn’t be too long from now. And unlike with his last partner, Castiel is actually really looking forward to furthering the physical intimacy of their relationship. He craves it, desires it unlike ever before. Dean is the only one to ever have this effect on him, and he strongly believes Dean will always be the only one. 

Right now, he’s currently wishing Dean was with him as he walks down the pasta aisle at the grocery store. After work Dean had texted him and told him he’d be working a couple hours late at the shop to finish up a car that needs to be ready for tomorrow, and Castiel had told him not worry, that he’ll just take the bus home. Knowing Dean would be tired after work, Castiel decided he’d make them a nice dinner to surprise and cheer the alpha up when he returned. With Dean’s daily cooking lessons, Castiel feels like he’s skilled enough now to make a satisfactory dinner on his own. So here he is, strolling up and down the aisles in search of ingredients for spaghetti. He pulls off a package of noodles from the shelf and deposits it into the hand basket, then locates the wine aisle and searches for something fancier than what they normally have on the few occasions where they actually have wine -- Dean’s more of a beer person, and Castiel normally just prefers water. He’s reading the description on a bottle (would Dean appreciate hints of vanilla and blackberry?) when someone approaches him, their familiar scent ringing bells in his head despite the fact he’d never smelled it as an omega, in its true potency. 

Standing a few feet away with a shopping cart is Balthazar. He’s stopped walking and is now staring at Castiel with a look of what can only be described as complete shock in his eyes. Castiel is only a little surprised to see him; they still live in the same part of the city, and he’s known in the back of his mind that something like this happening eventually was inevitable. They were bound to run into each other at some point. What is he even supposed to say to him? How does he proceed, know that they’re face to face? Balthazar’s one of the last people he wants to see. He’s still processing the alpha’s scent as it smells to him now that he’s an omega -- it’s not as bad as some of the alpha scents he’s come across, and it doesn’t give him the urge to flee despite it still smelling wrong, when Balthazar finally breaks out of his stupor and speaks. “Castiel. You’ve changed.” Balthazar comments, and there’s something bordering on wonder in his huskier-than-normal tone, interest written all across his face. Castiel sets the bottle of wine into his basket and turns to face him, remembering how he’d felt the night Balthazar had come home with a beta’s lipstick smeared across his face and realized he had been cheated on. He distinctly remembers Balthazar’s poor and uncaring defense, how the alpha had claimed he’d done it because Castiel couldn’t meet his needs. He’d thrown away their relationship just because of Castiel’s status. And now here they are, Balthazar looking at him as if for the first time now that he’s presented an omega.

Castiel draws himself up to stand at his full height, lifts his chin, and meets Balthazar’s gaze head on. “Hello, Balthazar.” Castiel says regally, watching the alpha carefully as he takes a few steps closer.  
Balthazar suddenly looks sheepish, rubbing at the back of his neck with a hand. “Looks like life’s been treating you quite nicely. You look well,” he says, and Castiel doesn’t miss the heavier inflection of his accent, one of Balthazar’s typical tactics to sound smooth and suave. Castiel guesses he’s trying to compensate for his initial awkwardness.  
“I have been doing well. I now teach World Religion at Frazier High School, and I have moved in with my boyfriend, Dean, and my best friend stayed with us for Christmas. The past few months have been wonderful.” To be polite, he adds, “Life has been going well for you too, I hope?” Balthazar nods, adjusting his shoulders slightly and straightening his back in a gesture Castiel has seen alphas do enough times to know he’s trying to make himself look bigger, more like an alpha.  
“It’s been decent, not too eventful. But,” Balthazar looks into his eyes and exhales a long breath, his shoulders sagging just enough for Castiel to notice. “It definitely hasn’t been the same without you.” Castiel opens his mouth to reply, surprised, but Balthazar beats him to it. “Listen, Castiel. I owe you an apology for acting the way I did earlier, and for making the massive mistake of being with someone who wasn’t you. It was selfish and unbelievably stupid of me to throw away what I had with you like that. I feel absolutely terrible that I broke things off the way I did, and that I treated you so horribly. I’ve never regretted one night of drinking and bad decisions so fervently in my whole life.”

Stunned, Castiel just stands in silence, amazed at Balthazar’s show of genuity and honesty. He’s never seen him open up and apologize like that before; in fact, Castiel can’t remember the last time Balthazar had ever actually apologized to him. He’s not even sure how to respond, what to say. “Balthazar-” The alpha shakes his head and continues.  
“I’d been meaning to apologize to you for months, but you left your phone with me and I didn’t have any way to reach you. I was a dick, Castiel, and I instantly regretted what I did and said to you that night.” Balthazar reaches into the inside pocket of his blazer and pulls out a pen and receipt, scribbling something down onto the back of the thin slip of paper. “I’m glad life has been going so well for you; heaven knows you deserve it. If you ever need anything at all, or you ever find yourself willing to give me another chance, please do call. I would very much fancy seeing you again.” Balthazar finishes, folding up the receipt and handing it to Castiel, who is still trying to process the alpha’s unexpected contriteness and sincerity. Absentmindedly, Castiel accepts the receipt, stuffing it into his jeans pocket without looking away from Balthazar.  
“Thank you for your apology,” Castiel says quietly, finally finding his voice. He adjusts the hand basket hooked on his wrist and tries to get his brain to catch up with what just happened.  
“No need to thank me. It’s well overdue,” Balthazar answers. “I wish you the best, Castiel. Good luck with everything.” Castiel gives him a small, tentative smile as he starts to push his cart away.  
“Good luck to you as well,” he concludes the conversation as Balthazar heads down another aisle. 

As Castiel finishes grabbing everything he’ll need to make dinner, he mulls over his exchange with Balthazar. It was definitely unexpected for the alpha to say what he did and seriously apologize to him and be accountable for what he had done wrong. While it doesn’t excuse how he had selfishly thrown away their relationship all because of Castiel’s unpresented status and deeply hurt him, he did seem as if he realized how wrong he was to think those things and to have done what he did. He seemed truly sorry for thinking the way he did, for hurting Castiel and for destroying their relationship and cheating. It’s more than Castiel could have ever hoped to get. Running into Balthazar and receiving his apology like this is the closure Castiel is realizing he’s needed with the end of his and Balthazar’s relationship. It had hurt him immensely when Balthazar had cheated on him and claimed it was Castiel’s fault for not being able to meet his needs, and he’d been carrying it with him in the back of his mind for awhile. But now that Balthazar has apologized and taken accountability, realizing that it was himself that ruined their relationship and not Castiel, it’s almost as if some sort of resolve was formed, a brand of reconciliation. Castiel didn’t know how much he’d needed this closure until now that he’s finally gotten it. It’s never been in his personality to hold grudges and leave things unsettled, on bad notes. 

As unexpected as it was, he’s glad it happened and that he’s finally gotten the apology he deserved. Balthazar had expressed wanting him back, but Castiel is in love with Dean, and even if he didn’t know Dean, Castiel still wouldn’t want to start over with him. But Castiel _does_ know Dean, and that’s more than he’ll ever need to know he will never be with Balthazar again, or feel the desire to. He only wants Dean, and will only ever want Dean. Balthazar had made him feel like he wasn’t good enough all those months ago, like his unpresented status overshadowed all of his other far more important traits. He never saw those traits in Castiel, never appreciated them because his focus was on something else. Dean has always seen Castiel for exactly who he is, has valued him for his personality and all of his other qualities from day one. With Dean, Castiel has never felt like his status influenced how Dean saw _him_ , his character and everything that makes him himself. Castiel would never go back to Balthazar. Now that he knows what true love is like, what is is for someone to truly love him for him and not his status, he could never be with Balthazar, or anyone but Dean. Getting closure on the matter with Balthazar gave Castiel peace of mind that he’d needed after Balthazar had wronged and hurt him, but Balthazar’s invitation to start again will not be accepted. 

Castiel has Dean, Dean, who is everything to him, and he wouldn’t give up their relationship for the world. 

***

When Castiel hears the garage door, he greets Dean with a kiss as soon as he steps into the kitchen, smelling deeply of pine and sunshine, exhaustion evident even in the undertones of his scent. “Well hello to you too, buddy,” Dean grins, his beautiful yet tired eyes crinkling at the corners, and all Castiel can do is kiss him again because that smile makes all the time away from Dean worth it. When they pull back, Dean scents the air curiously while absentmindedly wrapping his arms around Castiel’s waist, pulling him against the alpha’s chest. One hand runs through his hair and cups the side of his face, Dean looking around the kitchen before his eyes find Castiel’s again. Castiel leans into the touch, breathing in the heady scent of the alpha.  
“I cooked us dinner. It should be done in a few minutes,” Castiel says, and Dean grins even wider, cradling his face in both palms as he gives him another deep kiss, his tongue plundering Castiel’s mouth long enough that he forgets everything that isn’t Dean. That is until the timer on the oven startles them both, Castiel having to regretfully pull back and jog into the kitchen to take the garlic bread out of the oven. 

“It smells friggin’ awesome!” Dean crows, draining the pasta as Castiel slices the bread. He smiles at the praise, receiving another kiss on the top of his head as he finishes up and they get their food. They sit down at the table and Castiel pours them each a glass of wine, and Dean’s eyes widen in surprise briefly before he’s smiling blindingly once more. “You did all this for me?” Castiel nods, warmth rushing through him at the inflection in Dean’s voice.  
“I wanted to surprise you. I knew you’d be tired after work, and I thought you might like--” Dean’s already up out of his chair and kissing him again, fingers slipping through the hair at the back of his skull as he captures Castiel’s lips in another heady kiss.  
“I love it, Cas!” Dean takes a seat once they’ve both caught their breath and digs in, groaning at the taste. “It tastes fucking fantastic. God, what did I do to deserve you?” The way Dean is looking at him is more intimate than the comment calls for; it’s as if Dean’s remark isn’t just about Castiel’s surprising him with a nice dinner. Dean distracts him from the train of thought by raising his glass. “This is nice stuff, buddy,” he says, swishing the burgundy liquid around in his glass. “It’s all nice. Thanks for doing this for me; it’s -- you’re -- the best thing to come home to.” Dean gives him a smaller smile as his words grow less exuberant and more meaningful, his gaze burning into Castiel’s. Castiel raises his glass and taps it against the alpha’s, and they both drink. 

It’s a good thing his mouth is full just then, because otherwise, ‘I love you, Dean’ might have slipped out. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the shortest chapter of the fic, I'm sorry there wasn't too much to read for this update! I promise there's good reason behind it -- this is the last fluffy chapter for awhile. Things are about to start getting more angsty and plot driven. I have each chapter planned out, and this one just happened to be short, but I promise it's important and best that it's like this. Next update will be quite a roller coaster, so hang in there until then! Love you guys lots, thanks for reading! <3


	18. First Time for Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't beta'd (sorry)!

Holy _shit_.

Dean Winchester is fucking _in love_. 

He’s in love with Castiel. He’s _been_ in love with Castiel for who knows how long now, but only now, as he watches Castiel take a sip from his wine glass, looking like some debauched angel sitting in his kitchen, does the epiphany hit him. That feeling, like bliss and warmth and a bunch of other shit Dean doesn’t have a name for, that he’s been feeling near constantly whenever Cas is involved suddenly demands that he pull his head out of his ass and acknowledge what it is.

It hits him like a train, a burst of understanding all at once, like when you read a book and everything that didn’t make sense at the time but you knew was important comes together at the end and hits you with sudden understanding. That’s what it’s like now. All of these changes in Dean’s life are coming together and they all amount to the fact that he’s got some pretty deep, pretty serious feelings for the omega who has been living with him. It’s all adding up, his hindsight allowing him to see what he’s stupidly been refusing to acknowledge because he’s a dumbass and this, being in love, is completely unprecedented territory. 

Take his drinking, for example. Well, actually, lack thereof. That’s probably the most blinding indicator, something Sam would no doubt have noticed if he was still living with them. For years, Dean’d always turned to alcohol to numb his feelings, using it as a crutch to get him through his loneliness and self-hatred. Since Castiel had moved in with him, Dean’s only had at most a beer a day, not having one more often than he does, and occasionally wine with dinner when he and Cas are feeling particularly fancy. Those times he drinks for pleasure, not to smother his feelings. When he’s around Castiel, he doesn’t have any feelings that make him want to break out the Jack Daniel’s. He’s got whiskey stashed in his freezer that would normally have been gone after this amount of time since he bought it, but he hasn’t even thought of touching it. It’s got to be the first time in years, and Dean would bet his next paycheck that it’s all because of Castiel.

Dean doesn’t feel that all-consuming loneliness anymore, either. Now that Cas has come into his life, Dean doesn’t feel so empty inside. Cas actually makes him look forward to coming home, to making dinner for the two of them, to watching movies, to seeing his smile, hearing his laughter, tasting his kisses. He hasn’t felt the desire to sleep around; in fact, since Cas showed up, Dean hasn’t even thought of finding a woman to fill his bed. He hasn’t had sex in months, which is also for the first time in years, nor has he felt the desire to. The only want he feels -- emotional or physical -- is for Cas. Cas is the only person Dean can imagine himself having sex with now, and he’s content to wait as long as it takes for Cas to feel comfortable with being more physically intimate. This is not only Dean’s first real relationship, but the only time he’s ever been romantically involved with someone without starting with sex. It’s completely different with Cas, as nearly everything is. With Cas it’s not about sex, though he hopes that soon that will be an aspect of their relationship. It’s all feelings-based with the omega, and Dean never realized how much he fucking needed or wanted it this way. He wants everything with Cas.

For the first time ever, his feelings are on board with his instincts. Cas is the first omega Dean has allowed himself to get close to. While abandoning his strict no-omegas policy had originally terrified him, he knows without a doubt that it was the best decision he’s ever made, because it’s allowed him to grow close to Cas. Cas, who makes his instincts align with his feelings in a way that Dean had never thought would be possible for such a fuck-up like himself, someone as far away from an ideal mate or a man who could be mated as possible. Dean’s in love with Cas and his instincts are right there behind him, the urge to mate Cas, to mark him and breed him and bond the two of them together forever as powerful as his desire to protect and care for his omega. _His_ omega. Dean’s never wanted someone in every way before like he wants Cas. It’s fucking crazy, because he’s Dean Winchester, and right now, he’s dreaming of waking up to find Cas in his bed every day for the rest of his life, of Cas bearing his mating mark at the nape of his neck, of Cas one day being heavy with their children. Things he thought he would never in a million years imagine himself to be desperately wanting he now wants more than anything. 

It’s blindingly obvious, how Dean has been in love with Cas. Putting a name and facing up to that feeling is both terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. It’s terrifying because Dean’s never been in love, he’s never thought of himself as someone who could find a mate, nor has he ever opened himself up to be this vulnerable in the form of having such deep-rooted and strong feelings for someone. He’s horrified that he will fuck this up, that he’ll hurt Cas or lose him, because Dean fucks up every relationship he has. If someone means something to him, he inevitably hurts them. He can’t let that happen with Cas -- he would hate himself if he were to hurt the omega. It’s making a large knot of worry swell behind his sternum, his throat getting dry as he internally panics while he washes the dishes and Cas vacuums the living room. He’s in love, dammit, and he has no control over it. He doesn’t know what to _do_. 

He needs to call Sam. Yeah, that’s a good idea. Dean’s losing his shit trying to handle all this feelings-revelations crap. If anyone can help him, it’s Sam. 

Dean finishes up the dishes and heads to his room while Cas keeps vacuuming the downstairs floor. He shuts the door, sits down on the edge of his bed, and pulls out his phone, speed-dialing his little brother. “Dean?” Sam answers on the third ring.  
“Heya, Sammy,” Dean croaks, wanting to punch himself in the face for sounding just as frazzled as he is.  
“Are you alright? You sound a little high-strung,” Sam asks, concern edging his words. Dean runs a hand over his face, shuffling through the clusterfuck of feelings and thoughts pounding at the inside of his head. Where does he start? He’s absolute shit at talking about his feelings-- most times when he calls Sam and spills his guts, he’s drunk off his ass. Being sober and attempting to tell his baby brother that he’s in love is friggin’ hard. He almost wants to hang up, but the trainwreck of thoughts demanding he voice them won’t allow it. This is Sam, he tells himself. He tells Sam everything. Drunk or not, Sam’ll listen and help him out, and if there’s anything he needs right now, it’s help.  
“I, uh, I gotta talk to you about something.” He winces. This sounds like the beginning of a chick-flick scene and that’s never a good sign. Sam waits expectantly on the other end and Dean can almost picture him with one eyebrow lifted, patiently waiting for him to go on. He clears his throat, wracking his brain in an attempt to order his thoughts and express what he’s thinking coherently. As soon as he opens his mouth however, the words flood out like a faucet turned to full, unfiltered and rushed together in his eagerness to get them out. He doesn’t think about what he’s saying -- he just says it. 

“I don’t know what to do, Sammy. Cas just makes me feel -- I feel -- he has -- I’minlovewithCas, goddammit. Fuck, Sam, I don’t know what to fucking do about it, I can’t even think straight. He’s just -- and I’m -- _fuck_.” Sam interrupts him.  
“Breathe, Dean.” He reminds him, and Dean sucks in a deep breath and continues his verbal vomit, words running together as he forces them all out on the exhale.  
“I can’t fuck this up, Sam, I always fuck everything up, I can’t -- I can’t do feelings, and fuck, I can’t hurt Cas, but I feel like I’m gonna if I can’t figure out what to do. Hell, what if he doesn’t feel the same?” Dean stands up and rakes a hand through his hair viciously. “ _Fuck_. I’m not good enough for Cas, he could do way better, there’s no way he feels the same--”  
“Dean.” Sam cuts him off sharply. “Cas is crazy for you -- I’m sure of it. He’s head over heels, and that was just what I saw when I was there. I can only imagine how much stronger it is now that you guys spend nearly every minute together. Aren’t you a couple now?” Dean closes his eyes, trying to focus his thoughts.  
“I don’t know, fuck, I told him I like him and we started kissing and now we hold hands and make out and shit, hell, we’ve even scent marked each other, which I guess is a couple-y thing to do, but we’ve never actually _talked_ about what we are, y’know? We’ve never addressed it or put a label on it or anything.” Dean falls silent for a second as his thoughts hurtle up to speed. “I want everything with ‘im, Sam, I want stupid chick-flick shit like, like _mates_ stuff, and holy fucking hell.” Dean sits down hard on his bed and buries his head in his free hand, trying to calm down the hurricane that is his thoughts. 

“Who says he doesn’t feel the same? You haven’t talked to him about any of this.” Sam says reasonably, calmly, and Dean is soothed at least a little by his brother’s level-head, how collected he is when Dean’s going batshit crazy. The issue of whether or not Cas reciprocates his feelings brings up another thing that scares Dean down to his core, makes this whole situation even more complex and hard to understand.  
“If he does, how do I know that he really does and it’s not just some biological bullshit? I’m the only alpha he’s really been around since he presented. How am I supposed to know if what he’s feeling isn’t just his natural omega reaction to an alpha? His judgment is all fucked up because he hasn’t really been exposed to any other alphas since he became an omega.”  
“That’s ridiculous, Dean. Instincts can’t make you love someone and you know it. If you’d just sit down and talk about all of this with him, I bet it would clear all of this up and you guys could move forward. He could tell you how he feels and explain how stupid you’re being thinking that his being an omega is the source of all his feelings for you. He’s head over heels for you and his instincts aren’t to blame for it. But you won’t believe it from me, so believe it coming from him. Seriously. You’re freaking out because you haven’t communicated with him. If you can just suck it up and have a discussion about it, there wouldn’t be any misunderstandings and you’d be able to do whatever you want without worrying about it, because you’d know how he feels and he’d know how you feel.” 

Fuck, Sam’s right. He’s always right when it comes to this stuff. The only problem is Dean’s still too scared of fucking things up. What if trying to talk to Cas about it ruins everything? What if Cas isn’t ready for Dean to tell him how he feels, or to be in a more serious relationship? What if Cas doesn’t feel the same, isn’t as invested in him or the relationship as Dean is, and Dean ruins what they have by telling him about it? He can’t risk it. He loves what he has now with Cas too much. He can’t drive Cas away; he can’t lose him. If Cas were to leave, Dean doesn’t even know what he would do. Dean sucks at talking about feelings and things, so it would be all too easy for him to attempt it and ruin everything they have and make Cas not want to be with him, or even stay in the same house as him. He can’t lose that. He’d rather not talk about moving forward and clear things up if it means that he can keep Cas just as he is and not risk damaging their relationship or making Cas turn away. “Dean?” Sam asks, and Dean realizes he’s been quiet for too long.  
“Yeah?”  
“What are you thinking?”  
“I’m thinking I can’t just ‘talk it out’ with him. You make it sound so easy and like I won’t fuck it up, but if I talk to him and tell him shit he’s not ready to hear or I say something wrong, I could blow things to hell. I can’t risk it, Sammy. He--” Dean swallows hard. “He means too much to me to lose ‘im now.”

Sam makes a frustrated sound and Dean senses he’s about to argue. “If you guys never communicate about anything, your relationship can’t go anywhere and you’ll always be freaking out like this. Sooner or later you’ll have to talk about things,” Sam warns, and Dean knows he’s right, he just can’t act on what he’s saying. His brain is telling him not to risk it, not to fuck up with the first and only person he’s ever been in love with. There’s too much at stake.  
“I’m voting later, when I know for sure he feels the same way and that it isn’t because he’s an omega and I’m an alpha.” Dean declares. Sam sighs heavily, and Dean can imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose.  
“You can’t wait for him to just out of the blue tell you all the answers to the questions you haven’t even asked him and confess his feelings for you, Dean. It doesn’t work like that.” Dean huffs exasperatedly. Him and Sam don’t see eye to eye here, and they’re not going to get anywhere if they just keep repeating themselves.  
“I gotta go, Sammy,” Dean tries to end the conversation so Sam can’t keep trying to convince him. Sam grumbles, and Dean can tell he wants to keep going, but if there’s one thing Sam has learned, it’s that Dean is stubborn and doesn’t ‘see reason’, as he once put it.  
“Fine. Just promise me you’ll talk to him soon, okay? It’s best for both of you guys. The sooner you talk to him about everything, the better. Plus, it won’t be hanging over your head anymore once you clear things up.”  
“We’ll see,” Dean lies half-heartedly. “Bye, Sam.” Sam says goodbye, sounding distinctly unhappy, and Dean hangs up. The sound of the vacuum is still audible from downstairs, so he knows Cas is still working away. Dean decides to give him a hand and hopefully clear his mind of this whole conversation until he’s ready to deal with it another time. While Sam is probably right about the communication thing, Dean isn’t ready to sit down and have that talk with Cas, necessary as it might be.

Dean sighs heavily, scrubbing the palms of his hands over his eyes. 

Eventually he’ll do it, he promises himself that. But right now, he just wants to quit thinking about all of this. He just wants to be with Cas, without all this extra communication crap to think about.

***

Later that night, they’re watching a James Bond movie -- _GoldenEye_ \-- but they’re not actually paying any attention. Well, at least Dean isn’t; his focus is completely on Cas. Specifically, how Cas is underneath him and how he can feel every line of Castiel’s body pressed against his own. Cas is lying on his back, shoulders propped up against the arm of the couch. Dean is lying on top of him, on his stomach so that his face is resting on Cas’ chest and his arms are wrapped snuggly around his waist, legs draped over the other couch arm. His couch really isn’t big enough for them to both be lying down like this without being on top of each other and he really, really has no problem with that. He loves this position, his chest rising and falling in time with Cas’, Cas’ legs spread to bracket his hips and thighs. Dean can hear the steady rhythm of Cas’ heart, can inhale the deep, heady scent like summertime and honey that is even more intense when Dean’s face is so close to the bare skin of his throat. If he were to move up just a little, he could scent Cas’ neck, where his scent is strongest. The idea appeals to him hugely, so he shifts closer, not missing the flare of heat that zings through him when his hips drag over Cas’, and buries his face against the base of Castiel’s throat, dragging his lips along each collarbone. 

He can both hear and feel Cas’ breathing hitch, his scent deepening to become richer, taking on a more cloying edge that has Dean’s instincts going crazy, a blissful haze settling pleasantly over his brain. Dean lightly scrapes his teeth along each collarbone before planting a kiss at the hollow of the base of Cas’ throat, then tilts his head to the side and mouths along the stretch of Cas’ neck. He trails open-mouthed kisses up the expanse of soft skin, tongue laving at each fresh mark he leaves. Castiel’s eyes are closed, his hands fisting the fabric of the back of Dean’s shirt. He’s murmuring Dean’s name in a soft litany, and fuck, hearing Cas say his name is addicting and satisfying on a visceral level. Every noise the omega makes is beautiful, and Dean wants to hear them all. When Dean sucks a mark over Cas’ pulse point, he looks up at Cas through his lashes and sees the omega is biting his lip to keep quiet. Dean pulls off with a wet, sucking pop and catches Cas’ eyes. “Don’t do that, buddy. I wanna hear you,” Dean whispers, smiling when Cas releases his lip.  
“Please continue,” Cas encourages breathlessly, his eyes slipping shut again when Dean resumes. He wants to see what other noises he can get out of him with just his lips and tongue, so he kisses the bolt of Cas’ jaw, reveling in the gratifying ache that comes from brushing his lips and cheek over the light stubble there. Cas tips his head back to further expose his neck, and the display of submission and vulnerability sends deep-simmering heat coiling low behind Dean’s navel. His omega is so unbelievably beautiful like this, responding so amazingly to his touch -- it’s entrancing. “Beautiful, Cas,” Dean praises against his skin. “My beautiful omega.”

Dean finally seals Cas’ lips with his own, chasing the taste of the omega and licking deep into his mouth. He closes his eyes and traces the smooth ridges of Cas’ teeth, then sucks at Cas’ tongue, breathing in the soft moan that follows the action. Cas’ arms slide up to loop around his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at the base of his skull, fueling the fire spreading through him. A low rumble starts in his chest as he cradles Cas’ face in both hands, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones, Cas tightening his arms in response and humming in the back of his throat for him to continue when he pulls away for breath. “I gotcha,” Dean reassures him, licking over Cas’ lips as he seals them in another kiss. He plunders Cas’ mouth with his tongue, breathing in the breathy sounds he makes. Cas tastes like ambrosia, better than anything ever, and with his scent only intensifying as the seconds slip by, it’s no surprise the euphoria has him nearly dizzy. “Dean,” Cas murmurs, looking up at him with hooded eyes as he hitches his leg over Dean’s hip. Dean makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, fire racing through his veins and smoldering hot and deep in his belly as he sinks deeper into the position. “Fuck, Cas,” Dean rumbles, blinking down at his omega in captivation. Cas is so fucking beautiful like this, peeking up at him through his lashes, dark curls fucked to hell and skin flushed with heat, lips kiss-swollen and spit-slick. Dean’s never seen anything so breathtaking and tantalizing in his life. The space between them is hot with their panting breaths, thick with their combined scents, and all Dean can think is mateminemyCasmyomega. 

A possessive growl scrapes up Dean’s throat and he drops his face to lap at the hard center of Cas’ throat, unable to resist. Cas tastes and smells so fucking good, and Dean will never be able to understand how this perfect man could be _his_. The heat and softness of his skin is driving Dean absolutely crazy and he can feel his cock swelling in the tight confines of his boxers, becoming hard and thick as he ruts shallowly against Castiel’s hips. Cas moans loudly, Dean’s heart skipping a beat at the utterly wrecked sound before picking up double time as their clothed cocks drag against each other, the friction delicious and maddening. They’re both breathing heavy as Dean mouths at Cas’ throat while circling his hips, the fabric between them too hot and itchy against his dick. He desperately wants it gone, wants every inch of his skin pressed against Cas’, with no clothing barriers in the way. “Dean,” Cas gasps, fingers digging hard into his shoulders, back arching off the couch when Dean scrapes his teeth over the nape of his neck. Every instinct he has is demanding he sink his teeth into the soft flesh and bite down hard, mark Cas as his in such a permanent, unmistakable way that it would be undeniable that Cas is _his_ omega. 

Cas’ hips are bucking up against his own, the omega writhing beautifully beneath his body as undone as Dean is himself. He wants to give them both what they want, what they need, and he’s going to take care of his omega the entire way. He wants to draw this part out, to take his time and really take care of Cas, but the omega throws a wrench in his coherent thought process with just a few deliberate rolls of his body. “Cas,” Dean groans as the omega’s hips come off the couch to put maddening pressure against his trapped cock, which is now achingly hard and twitching with acute need. He feels the slight dampness of precome leaking from the head, and fuck, Dean can’t think straight. He needs Cas, he needs Cas so bad, has needed him for so long. Cas captures his lips in another fervent kiss as Dean keeps one hand supporting Cas’ head while the other slowly trails down his side, fingers twisting in the hem of the omega’s shirt. “Please,” Cas gasps against his lips, his eyes not wavering from Dean’s.  
“I gotcha, buddy, I gotcha,” Dean promises, licking over Cas’ bottom lip before continuing. Dean rucks Cas’ shirt up and pulls it over his head to toss on the back of the couch, immediately running his hands over Cas’ newly bared skin, palms exploring the planes of his chest.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean breathes, another possessive noise rumbling in the back of his throat as he takes in the lean-muscled expanse of Cas’ chest before him. He moves down and dips his head to drag the flat of his tongue from Cas’ sternum to his belly button. Cas writhes even more wildly beneath him, driven by the same ecstasy Dean is as his hips buck up in a stuttering rhythm against Dean’s own. Dean kisses his way back up the omega’s chest, lips exploring the lines of Cas’ ribs before he reaches the omega’s left nipple. He exhales a hot breath over it and watches as it grows hard and pebbles under the attention, a beautiful contrast to the red flush of Cas’ heaving chest. Cas arches his back, making a needy, debauched sound that has the heat in Dean’s groin flaring, cock twitching. His eyes don’t stray from Cas’ as he closes his mouth over Cas’ nipple. Cas cries out sharply, throwing his head back against the pillows at the arm of the couch, and Dean sucks, running his tongue over the hardening flesh as a balm to the suction. His dick is throbbing, burning with need, and he growls again because there are too many layers of clothing between them. He’s gonna need to fix that ASAP.

Dean gently scrapes his teeth over Cas’ nipple before circling his tongue around it, Cas an incoherent, writhing mess beneath him as he does so. He uses his free hand to wrestle his own shirt off to fling to the ground, then switches to give Cas’ other nipple the same attention. Cas’ fingers are running through Dean’s hair and he’s chanting his name in syllables broken by gasping breaths. Dean needs to get his jeans off, fuck, but Cas is so damn captivating, so ethereally beautiful like this, it’s hard for him to focus. He slides his hand over Cas’ side and continues down to cup Cas’ ass. Desire sings through him, his cock burning and hardening impossibly more when he feels how Cas has soaked through the back of his jeans with slick. _Fuck_. Dean’s going to come in his pants like a teenager because Cas’ slick is smearing over his hand as he squeezes his ass, their hips moving together in a perfect, desperate rhythm. He feels Cas’ response in the form of another moan and a hot pulse of slick, smelling sugar-sweet and of pure, unadulterated Cas, leaks from his ass and further soaks the back of his jeans. 

Without wasting anymore time, Dean slips his hand underneath the waistband of Cas’ jeans and curves his palm to fit the swell of his ass as he slides his hand down over the slick-drenched skin. The slick makes the nerve endings in Dean’s skin tingle, its touch-heightening properties adding to the euphoric sensory overload already seizing his brain. Cas’ hips stutter against his wildly and Dean kisses him deeply, losing himself in the addictive heat and wetness of Cas’ perfect mouth moving against his own. His hand continues until his fingers are completely coated in Cas’ slick, and Dean’s breath hitches as he locates and traces two fingers around the omega’s tight, puckered entrance. 

Castiel freezes for a split second, cringing away from the touch.

Dean automatically notices the way Cas’ entire body tenses and freezes. He goes stock still in response, a tidal wave of concern and worry rushing over him. His fingers are frozen at the slick-soaked ring of muscle, and he’s suddenly terrified of moving even an inch. Castiel’s body language is radiating discomfort, it’s unmistakable, and Dean’s brain is tripping to a halt trying to catch up with the turn of events. Heart beating rapidly, Dean immediately pulls his hand out of the back of Cas’ jeans, horror, regret, fear, and worry flooding through him and staunching his arousal so fast it’s nearly dizzying. “Cas?” He breathes, tension in every line of his body. His thoughts are rapid firing with doubt and panic: did he go too far? Is Cas not ready for this? Did he cross a boundary? Did he hurt him? Or... is Cas having second thoughts about them? 

Cas refuses to meet his eyes, his breathing heavy as he looks away from Dean’s searching gaze. There’s an apology written all over his face, which makes no fucking sense whatsoever -- _Dean’s_ the one who did something wrong. Instead of figuring out how to proceed, Dean’s brain is stuck cycling through that one question over and over: is this because Cas is having second thoughts about sex, or second thoughts about _them_? Dean watches his face worriedly, entire body tense in anticipation for some sort of response from the omega. Cas closes his eyes and starts rolling his hips against Dean’s again, trying to pick up the rhythm they had going before, which is the last thing Dean expected, his thoughts still miles behind. He frowns, staying right where he is, refusing to pick back up where they left off. “Cas, what’s wrong?” Dean prompts, concerned and bewildered, not allowing them to return to what they were doing just a minute before even though Cas seems suddenly hell-bent to do so. The haze of lust is quickly clearing from his brain, stopped dead in its tracks from the way Cas had recoiled at his touch. Cas opens his eyes, shakes his head in dismissal of Dean’s question, and reaches for Dean as if to kiss him. He’s determined to pick up right where they left off, as if he hadn’t just frozen and flinched when Dean’d touched his hole. Cas’ scent is noticeably off, a dark edge to it that is completely wrong given the circumstances. It in no way goes with his eagerness to continue, and that sends all sorts of red flags popping up in Dean’s head.

When Cas realizes Dean isn’t going to join him, he finally acknowledges Dean’s question, his scent darkening further with a strange brand of desperation. “Nothing is wrong -- I apologize for stopping us. It’s just a… leftover reflex reaction from when I was with Balthazar,” Cas explains, lowering his eyes ashamedly. Whoa, wait. Balthazar? Shit. That just confirms it -- Dean pushed Cas further than he was ready to go, and now he’s probably having second thoughts about them, if that wasn’t in part his reason for cringing in the first place. Dean’s eyes widen in understanding and he sits up, ignoring Cas’ little cry of protest. Regret and worry are like heavy stones expanding to fill his chest as just how badly he’s fucked up with Cas starts to sink in. Cas’ hand curls against Dean’s hip, his palm coming up to rest against Dean’s cheek. “Please, let’s continue. It’s nothing, really. I want to,” Castiel pleads, looking into Dean’s eyes earnestly. But Dean can’t. When he looks into Cas’ eyes, he doesn’t see the complete trust and surety that he should. Cas isn’t okay to continue, he isn’t ready for this, Dean pushed him too far. He pushed him too far and now he’s definitely having second thoughts about being with him, if he wasn’t already in the first place. Dean rolls off of Cas and stands, his heart twinging at the flash of hurt in Cas’ eyes as he does so.  
“No, Cas. We can’t continue like this, you’re not ready.” Dean says gently but firmly. His breathing is slowing and the fire is draining from his veins as he comes down from the lust-fueled high and into reality. He absolutely will not have sex with Cas until Cas is one hundred percent ready, is one hundred percent sure that’s what he wants. He’s disgusted himself pushing Cas as far as he did. What if Dean pushed him too far when he’s still trying to recover from his bad experiences with sex from Balthazar? And on top of that, what if Cas was reconsidering being with Dean in the first place? Dean sighs heavily, raking his hand through his hair, appalled with himself.  
“Dean, I-” Cas starts, sitting up on the couch, no doubt about to continue to try and convince Dean otherwise. Dean won’t let him do this when it isn’t what he really wants. When _Dean_ isn’t what he really wants. Dean holds up a hand to stop him from launching into a defensive argument. He needs to talk to Cas about this, explain why --

Anger suddenly flashes in Cas’ eyes and he sits up straighter, glaring at Dean as he stops him from even getting a word out. “Don’t just stop me like that when I’m trying to talk to you, Dean! You never listen to me when you think your opinion trumps mine or you think you know better; you don’t trust _me_ to know what’s best for _me_. I never think you’re like all of those controlling alphas with superiority complexes until you ignore what I say, unwilling to hear me out, because you’re just so sure you know better. You did that before with the bus issue, and you’re doing it now, and I am _not going to tolerate it!"_ Cas snarls, standing up from the couch almost violently. Dean’s jaw falls open in shock before his thoughts catch up and frustration swells like a balloon in his chest. He watches Cas head up the stairs without looking back, his scent pungent with anger and hostility, and resists the urge to go after him, knowing it’ll only make things worse. Dean wants to run up to him and stop him, tell him that that wasn’t what he was doing at all, that he was trying to stop Cas from doing something he would regret and just communicate with him like he fucking should’ve all along. But Cas is too volatile right now, and Dean still hasn’t fully wrapped his mind around what happened. He feels like shit, for a number of reasons: Cas compared him to the knothead alphas he hates, the ones he swore to himself he’d never be like, and he also feels horrible for taking things further than Cas was ready for. Cas is without a doubt having second thoughts about them now, and that fact feels like a punch to the gut. 

He hears Cas’ bedroom door slam. His own room is sounding pretty tempting right now, so he heads up the stairs and makes his way to his bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress. He exhales a heavy, frustrated sigh, shoulders sagging as he buries his head in his hands and wonders how different this night could have gone if he’d listened to Sam and him and Cas had talked about it first.

So much for not fucking things up by opening his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Independence Day to my American buddies! Here's a day early update because I was on top of things this week, hahaha! 
> 
> Thanks so so much for all of your continued support and love, it means the world <3


	19. Hindsight Is 20/20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd! Prepare yourself for mistakes galore, hahaha!

Castiel is upset. By this point, everyone in the diner must know, must be able to smell it on him or read it in his body language. An alpha sitting two booths over turns to look curiously over his shoulder at Castiel, but immediately turns back around, eyes widening comically at the scathing glare Castiel sends his way. He returns his gaze to his nearly empty mug of coffee, blowing the steam rising off the black liquid away before taking a sip. The taste is dark and bitter and burns his mouth going down, but he doesn’t mind it. He stares out the window at the pouring rain, the moon obscured by thick, dark, swollen rainclouds that blend seamlessly with the night sky. He’d desperately needed some air after what happened earlier that evening with Dean, so he’d hopped on a bus and gotten off at the first stop, heading into the nearest warm establishment to get out of the rain, which turned out to be this diner. So now here he is, brooding while watching the stormy weather through the window, moodily drinking his coffee and dwelling on his thoughts. 

He’s angry with Dean. He’s sick of Dean _not listening_. The alpha is stubborn and at the worst times refuses to listen to Castiel when he’s already made up his mind about something, even if that something isn’t for him to decide. He’d let it go when Dean had forbade him from taking the bus to that doctor’s appointment because Dean had explained himself and Castiel understood and wanted to ease his worry, but this is different. This time Dean didn’t have any reason for talking over Castiel like he had some right to make executive choices on Castiel’s behalf. Castiel isn’t going to let Dean decide for himself what Castiel is feeling and then refuse to listen when he tries to tell him otherwise. Dean can be so _infuriating_. Castiel huffs, tipping back the dregs of his coffee. 

He loves Dean, but right now, he’s upset and needs some time alone. Dean’d hurt his feelings earlier on top everything, and that only added to his dark mood. They were so close to becoming physically intimate, to sharing something Castiel had wanted to share with him for months to further cement their relationship and bond, and most importantly, Castiel had completely opened himself up. He allowed himself to be vulnerable in a way he’d never done for anyone but Balthazar, and doubted he ever would after Balthazar had hurt him in doing so. Stripped bare, at the mercy of Dean’s touch, Castiel had lowered all of his defenses, completely trusting Dean to take him apart and put him back together again, to care for him in this form of intimacy like Balthazar never had. But Dean stopped because Castiel had flinched and the insecurity that had caused him to do so only grew as Dean refused to ignore it and pick up where they left off, despite Castiel’s pleas. 

Castiel grips his coffee mug tightly in his hands and gazes down at his fingers wrapped around the blue ceramic. It’s so much easier to blame Dean and be upset with him for not listening than it is to deal with everything else, so that’s what he does, allowing the heat of his anger to fester inside of him. He’s so focused on his thoughts that he doesn’t even register the cloying omega scent or the sound of footsteps as a waitress comes up to his table. “Would you like a refill on your coffee?” Castiel looks up as she asks, her voice too bright and only getting on his nerves. He meets her eyes, which are big and blue -- the kind that society adores on omegas -- and stares back hard. He wants to be alone right now, why can’t she see that? His irritation peaks and he glares at her, temper flaring.  
“No.” He snaps harshly, looking back down at the empty mug still clutched tight in his hands. She smells too sweet, like fruit that’s been left out in the sun for too long, and it’s only serving to further his irritation. Her scent takes on the sharp edge of surprise and when Castiel looks up at her again, she looks taken aback. The change in her scent and the look on her face shocks him into awareness and he immediately feels terrible, realizing just how harsh and rude he’s being to the omega when she’s done nothing to deserve it. “I apologize, that was --- I shouldn’t have -- I’m sorry for taking my anger out on you, it was incredibly rude and wrong of me,” Castiel’s words are running together in his hurry to get them out, shame making the syllables feel thick rolling off his tongue. He rubs his hands over his face, feeling remarkably worse now that he’s snapped at the poor waitress. He’s losing his handle on his emotions and he feels horrible that it’s causing him to hurt others. The waitress gives him an understanding nod of acknowledgement and then backs away without another word, quietly heading back into the kitchen. Castiel sighs heavily, setting the mug down and resting his forehead on the cool tabletop, taking a moment to absorb the mass of dark emotions that somehow just keep multiplying inside him. 

Castiel looks up at the muted thud of something being set down on the table top and is surprised to see the waitress has returned. She’s sliding into the booth seat opposite him and placing a plate with a large slice of cake down in front of him, next to a new mug of fresh black coffee. “They’re on the house,” she says with a small smile, sliding a fork over to his side of the table.   
“Thank you --” he reads her nametag, “-- Sharon.” He accepts the utensil and takes a drink of the coffee, enjoying the heat from the liquid slipping down his throat. Sharon gives him another kind smile, waiting patiently, and he looks more closely at her. She has a mating mark at the nape of her neck, scarred over in such a way that it looks like she’s been mated for awhile. She still smells too sweet, but her scent is full of compassion and understanding and it’s a balm to Castiel’s nerves this time, easing away the anger he still feels when he thinks of what happened with Dean. 

“Are you doing alright?” She asks gently, perching her elbows on the tabletop, fingers adjusting the elastic securing the end of her braid. Castiel runs his thumb over the rim of the mug and meets her soft gaze, breathing in the comforting pheromones radiating off her. Omegas are said to have a calming effect on those around them, and Castiel is just now learning that it doesn’t just apply to alphas. Her genuine concern and empathetic gaze encourages him to respond without brushing her off, like he would anyone else who’d ask him.   
“Yes, I’m sorry, I’ve had a rough evening and I regret taking it out on you.” He says, and she waves his apology off.   
“Problems at home?” She asks tentatively. Castiel cuts a bite of cake and skewers it onto the fork tines, pausing before bringing it to his mouth.   
“Yes, you could say that.” He closes his lips around the fork and enjoys the sweet fluffiness of the cake and the rich frosting on his tongue.   
“Yeah, I can smell it on you.” She sits back and regards him thoughtfully. “Everyone here says I stink the place out after fights with my husband.” Sharon gives him a knowing, understanding look. “Mates have a way of getting under your skin.” 

Castiel’s eyebrows pull up at that and his cake-laden fork stops its journey back to his mouth, taken up short. “Oh, we’re not....” He trails off, biting his lip, because despite what happened tonight, Castiel still feels a thrill go through him, desire burning hot in his chest at the mention of Dean being his mate. It’s interesting how Sharon automatically assumed it was Castiel’s mate who was bothering him; she seemed so sure of their status when she said it, like there wasn’t much of a possibility it could be Castiel’s boyfriend or girlfriend or sibling or anyone else. Sharon raises her eyebrows, surprised.   
“You’re not mates yet?” Castiel shakes his head and Sharon laughs, smiling at him again. “It’s only a matter of time, then. There’s only one person in life who can wind you up enough to send all alphas in a ten mile radius running.” She says confidently, reaching forward to pat him on the shoulder. Castiel tilts his head, squinting at her in confusion.  
“What do you mean?”  
“Only your mate can make you feel everything so intensely that you get as worked up as you are. No other person can get such a visceral response from you but your mate; that’s why I assumed you guys were already mated. I always used to think that being in love and being mated meant that you would only really feel happy, good feelings, but as soon as I found Henri, I realized that that’s not true at all. Being mated means that you feel _everything_ that has to do with your mate far more deeply than anything else. The good, the bad, the ugly: Henri made me feel all of it like I’d never felt before.” She finishes, smiling warmly as she thinks of her mate. Castiel stares at her, processing what she’s just said, his heart beating faster in his chest. “So I have complete faith you and whoever you’re upset with will be mates in no time at all. There’s just that _something_ , y’know? That thing that draws two people together and bonds them. If you’re already like this and you’re not even mated yet, you know that’s a sign that it’s meant to be.”

Castiel swallows noisily, turning over her words in his head. The way she’d explained it, how she’d seen the bond just in Castiel’s snapping at her because of his residual anger with Dean, it makes him wonder… can there more to mates than just attraction? Something intangible, metaphysical, almost like how scientists try to explain the True Mates anomaly? Science can’t explain it beyond the few rare mated pairs where it’s undoubtedly there, but maybe Sharon just did. As if she’d just heard his thoughts, she adds in, “Some people just have that… _other person_ that they were made for, like the universe designed them to be together or something, or at least that’s what I like to believe. Whoever you’re angry at is no doubt feeling just as torn up about it as you, I can guarantee you that, with a bond like yours.” She stands up, gathering the empty coffee cups and stacking them on the frosting-smeared plate. “My break’s almost over, so I gotta get back to work. I hope you and your partner work things out soon, and then you guys can get things going and join the club,” she says with a grin, gesturing to the mating mark on her nape.  
“Thank you so much for the coffee and cake, and for sitting down and talking to me. You really helped put things into perspective. And, again, I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier.” Castiel says, offering her a grateful smile. Some of the weight feels as if she’s lifted it off his chest, and now, his brain is whirring away examining the concept she’d mentioned and how strange it is for her to notice a mating bond when Dean and Castiel aren’t even mated, along with considering the implications of what that might mean.  
“Of course, hun. And don’t you even worry, I can’t even count how many times I’ve blown up at people after a fight with my husband. Good luck to the both of you!” She gives him a wave goodbye, and then walks away and disappears back into the kitchen. 

He can’t waste any longer sitting here at the diner. He needs to get home to Dean, and he needs more time to think about what Sharon said. Something vital is probing at the edge of Castiel’s mind, just out of reach, and it’s spurring on introspective reflection about his and Dean’s relationship. Is there more to their relationship than just attraction? Could Dean be his _other person_? If a stranger who hasn’t even seen Castiel and Dean together is just able to _tell_ there’s a bond there despite the fact they are not actually mated, then what does that mean? Scientists had said that when a couple becomes mated, a metaphysical bond is forged between them. True Mates are defined scientifically as an alpha and omega having that metaphysical bond with each other _from birth_ , the bond deepening from the moment they both present to the point where one can literally not live without the other. Castiel’s brain can hardly consider the anomaly that is such a rarity it’s as farfetched as believing you’ll win the lottery, so unlikely and too-good-to-be-true that some people don’t even believe in it, despite the scientific evidence proving it exists. He needs more time to understand and comprehend this whole thing, because maybe he is jumping to conclusions and taking things way, way too far. Right now he needs to focus on more pressing matters, like talking to Dean about what happened earlier. 

Now that he’s calmed down and is thinking more rationally, his emotions more under control, Castiel is able to rethink what happened. His anger with Dean had clouded his assessment of what happened, and he’d focused on that to staunch the embarrassment and shame he’d felt when he’d flinched at Dean’s touch. Now that he _really_ thinks back on what happened, he realizes his anger with Dean stemmed mostly from the insecurity and shame that had flooded him when Dean said he wasn’t ready and stopped them from proceeding, all because Castiel had cringed. That one reflexive action had been enough to give Dean doubts about Castiel’s readiness, and while initially Dean claiming Castiel wasn’t ready had upset him, in reality, Castiel really _wasn’t_ ready. Dean was right. He read Castiel’s body language clear as day, and instead of playing it off like in the moment Castiel had felt he’d wanted him to, he stopped them. How can Castiel fault him for that? If their positions were reversed and Dean had cringed away, then Castiel would have immediately stopped as well, not wanting Dean to do something he wasn’t completely okay to do. He’d never want Dean to keep going when he wasn’t one hundred percent sure or ready, so why should Castiel be angry with Dean for not wanting -- or allowing -- them to continue, when Dean was just doing it for Castiel’s own good? 

Castiel had been desperate to keep going after he’d flinched away to make up for the visible faltering, to make up for seeming like he didn’t want what Dean was doing. He was insecure about the brief hesitation, and when Dean hadn’t let him get away with it, he’d snapped at him, choosing to get angry instead of to let his insecurity and vulnerability overcome him. He’d been so ashamed for flinching, especially because he knows exactly why he did it, and he hates that it was reflexive. It just goes to show exactly how much Castiel’s bad experiences with sex have stuck with him. He’d only ever had sex with Balthazar, and every time it was penetrative, he was on the receiving end. His body apparently still automatically recoils and tenses up as a reflex reaction to his hole being touched, accustomed to the dry pain that came with such touches and followed them. He’d been soaked with slick and wanting the touch more than anything that evening, but the first touch had him instinctively cringing, readying itself for the uncomfortable ache to follow. Castiel knew Dean wouldn’t hurt him, that sex with him would feel amazing and be the complete opposite of anything with Balthazar, but reflexes are deep-rooted. He wanted Dean, wanted that physical intimacy with him, but he wasn’t ready for it. His bad experiences with sex are at fault for his not being ready, not anything Dean did, but Dean probably thinks that it _was_ him. Castiel knows his alpha well; he is without a doubt blaming himself for everything bad that happened tonight, down to Castiel’s initial recoiling when Dean’d touched his hole. To make matters worse, Castiel snapped at Dean on top of it, then left without discussing anything. He was wrong to do that, and he can’t let Dean think that all of this was his fault. He needs to fix this. 

Dean did the right thing for both of them, even if in the moment Castiel didn’t know it was right. While he’s absolutely sure about Dean and wants him with everything he is, after his time with Balthazar, he isn’t ready to jump straight into penetrative sex. Dean saw that when he didn’t, and Castiel got angry with him for that as a defense. Castiel needs to get home and talk to him about it as soon as he can -- Dean’s no doubt beating himself up about it, and Castiel can’t have that. He needs to apologize. 

Castiel waits at the bus stop, anxiously checking the time on his watch. He hopes he didn’t miss the final bus of the night. A headache is brewing between his temples with the many things that are filling his head, from his conversation with Sharon and the possibility of him and Dean having that more-than-a-bond bond, to what Dean’s going to say to him when he gets back. Will he be angry? Will he have already gone to bed? Castiel bites at his bottom lip, refusing to imagine some of the worse options, like if Dean is now thinking Castiel doesn’t want to be with him anymore. The bus pulls up to the curb and Castiel breathes a little sigh of relief before getting on. The bus ride to the stop nearest home seems like it takes too long yet goes by too fast. He gets off, walks the short distance to Dean’s house, and lets himself inside. As expected, Dean isn’t in the living room or kitchen, which means he must be in his room. It’s just past nine, so Castiel doubts he’s already went to bed, but just to be sure, he knocks quietly on Dean’s closed door, just loud enough that it shouldn’t wake him if he is asleep. The guilt is weighing heavy on his shoulders and his head throbs gently in time with his heartbeat. There’s a brief sound like Dean is moving around and then his voice, raspier than normal, comes through the door. “Come in.”

Steeling himself, Castiel twists the doorknob and slowly enters into Dean’s room. What hits him first is the near stifling scent of upset, pungent and thick in the air, reeking of Dean’s unhappiness and the many different forms of it. The alpha himself is sitting on his bed, back pressed against the headboard, but as soon as he sees Castiel, he’s scrambling off the bed. “Cas, fuck, I’m sorry--” Dean’s rushing to get out even before his feet touch the floor, his scent sharpening with contriteness.   
“Wait, Dean. I need to apologize first.” Castiel says, bringing Dean up short. Dean’s eyebrows pull together in a look of confusion.   
“Apologize? You didn’t --”  
“Yes, I did. This was all my fault, not yours, and I’m sorry I made you feel like it was. You were right; I wasn’t ready for penetrative sex, and I’m glad you stopped me from doing something that I wasn’t quite ready to do. I shouldn’t have let my emotions get the best of me and snapped at you for doing the right thing, and for that, I’m truly sorry.” The words come out like a dam has burst, and they keep coming, right after Castiel takes another breath. “And I was wrong to tell you that you never listen to me and for comparing you to controlling alphas. You aren’t like that at all, I know you aren’t. You were just stopping me from doing something I wasn’t entirely comfortable with, which is the opposite of what those alphas would do.” Dean’s eyes are wide and he’s working the muscle in his jaw, posture radiating tension. He exhales a gusty sigh and his shoulders droop as he closes his eyes and then opens them to meet Castiel’s gaze.   
“Were you not ready because of _me_? Are you having second thoughts about us, Cas?” Dean asks quietly, voice raw with emotion, green eyes misty. It’s Castiel’s turn to look back at him with wide eyes, surprise coursing through him and understanding quick to follow. He knew Dean would jump to this conclusion, his insecure, self-blaming alpha….

Castiel grabs Dean’s hand and guides him to sit down on the edge of his bed, taking a seat right next to him. “Look at me, Dean.” Castiel murmurs, reaching up to cup his alpha’s face in his palms so that their eyes are locked on each other’s. “I wanted -- and still want -- you in every way. I want to have sex with you, I want to be physically intimate with you. You are not the reason I recoiled.” Castiel draws in a deep breath, bracing himself. “Balthazar was. I--I was so used to...tensing when he’d touch me….it was just a reflex reaction. It in no way indicates my desire to sleep with you, Dean. I wanted you then, and I want you now.” he promises, staring into Dean’s eyes earnestly. The alpha swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, then scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms.   
“I want you too, Cas,” he replies softly, and Castiel leans in to close the few inches between their lips, but Dean isn’t finished. “And I need to say I’m sorry, too. It’s my fault for not talking to you about all of this before we even got started. If I’d just asked you what you were ready for beforehand, then none of this would’ve happened. I’m sorry.”

“It’s my fault as much as it is yours, Dean. We both are to blame for a failure to communicate. So let’s communicate now,” Castiel replies gently, and Dean places his hand over Castiel’s on the duvet, entwining their fingers.   
“Fuck, I’m not too good with talking about feelings but, Cas…. I _need_ you. I need you so damn much it scares me.” Dean whispers, eyes burning into Castiel’s. Castiel sees the meaning there, hears it in the roughness of Dean’s voice, feels it in the bond between them. He knows what Dean means, and he feels the exact same way, has felt the exact same way for _months_.  
“I love you, Dean Winchester,” Castiel breathes, and Dean is staring at him with so much open emotion in his eyes, Castiel is mesmerized. There’s awe, joy, amazement, quickly fading disbelief, and most overwhelmingly, love. The alpha’s scent turns devastatingly cloying and rich, and he’s tugging Castiel up against his chest, cradling the side of face in one hand while the other tangles in the hair at the back of his skull.   
“Castiel,” Dean breathes against his lips, the one word sounding nearly reverent rolling off his alpha’s tongue. Dean’s kissing him with a deep, profound fervency that sends shock waves of pleasure rippling through Castiel, all the way to his finger tips and toes. The way Dean said his name resonates in his bones, as does the conviction with which Dean declared he needs him. This -- Dean -- is _everything_. 

His tongue plunders Castiel’s mouth like that’s what it was made for, tracing the edges of his teeth, twisting against the roof of his mouth, stroking over his own tongue. Castiel’s eyes fall shut and he immediately loses himself in Dean, every sense _DeanDeanDean_. He smells like home, like mate, like everything Castiel has ever wanted and he’s right here, kissing Castiel like his life depends on it. Castiel returns the kiss with all the passion he feels building in his chest, wanting to communicate through each movement of his lips and curl of his tongue the sincerity of his statement, to show the man in his arms just how deeply he loves him. 

Dean eases them to lie down face-to-face on his bed, still wrapped in each other’s arms and kissing for so long Castiel loses track of time. These kisses are different from before, not fervently escalating, hot and desperate, but rather slow-building and deep, each movement purposeful and lingering. Something is smoldering low in Castiel’s belly, growing with each kiss, like molten lava rather than just fire alone. He craves it, craves Dean. He’s absolutely sure he could lie here forever, as cliche as it sounds, because every kiss leaves him wanting many more. Dean maps out his mouth with his tongue, elicits all kinds of noises from him as he drags his teeth and curves his tongue just so. His scent is wonderfully heady and Castiel is getting drunk on the sunshine-pine, overlaid with a woodsy musk that is characteristic of Dean’s arousal. Dean suddenly shifts them so Castiel is on his back and Dean is hovering over him, arms braced on either side of Castiel’s head, knees bracketing his hips. “You know,” Dean rumbles low in his throat, drawing his teeth lightly over the shell of Castiel’s ear. The sensation and sound of his alpha’s voice sends pleasant shivers down his spine. “We could always start smaller. There are many other things we could do that you might be more comfortable with.” Dean nips at Castiel’s earlobe gently and Castiel is not proud of the following noise he makes, a rush of heat heading south to pool in his gut. 

“Like what?” Castiel gasps breathlessly, looking up at Dean with hooded eyes. Dean gives him a crooked, seductive smile before capturing his lips in another kiss. Castiel is nearly dizzy when Dean pulls back just enough for them to breathe, both of their chests heaving.   
“Let me show you, and if you’re comfortable with it, then we can keep going,” Dean winks, then plants a trail of kisses down Castiel’s chest. He rucks Castiel’s shirt up and laves at each hip bone before following the light trail of dark hair down to the waistband of his jeans, which are sitting low on his hips. Castiel is breathing raggedly, eyes glued to Dean’s red, swollen lips as he kisses the hard bulge visible in Castiel’s jeans, then exhales a hot breath that Castiel feels on the over-sensitized skin through the fibers of the fabric. He lets out a strangled cry, hips stuttering against the mattress as he arches up in search of the heat and pressure Dean’s mouth offers. Dean chuckles at the reaction and rewards him by mouthing at Castiel’s aching cock through his jeans, the fabric keeping away the more intense heat and suction Castiel now desperately craves. He slides his fingers through Dean’s hair and his hips come off the bed again, the tantalizing heat and slickness of Dean’s mouth torturous like this, just out of reach. Slick is flowing from his fluttering hole, but neither he nor Dean pay it any attention. The alpha’s eyes are bright with want and need when he finds Castiel’s, his cheeks flushed a beautiful pink that makes his freckles stand out. Castiel loves it, loves seeing Dean like this. He wants more, he needs more of Dean. 

Dean removes his mouth and gives Castiel a sultry look that has his cock twitching in his boxers, another pulse of slick soaking the back of his jeans. “See? We can start small like this. Absolutely no rush.” Dean promises while maintaining eye contact, sincerity dripping from every word, and something about it fills Castiel with a different brand of warmth, one he’s now very familiar with and proudly calls _love_. “We’ll take this as slowly as you need, buddy, because I want -- I _need_ you to be happy and feel good. I’m going to make sure we do exactly what you’re ready for and nothing more, that you feel safe like this,” his alpha declares, and the warmth expands to fill every space between his ribs, making his chest balloon with it. “So…” Dean presses a kiss to the head of Castiel’s clothed cock and Castiel’s whole body jolts in anticipation, barely suppressing a needy whine. “Are you one hundred percent good to continue?”   
“ _Yes,_ ” Castiel practically moans, every inch of his body burning with desire and need. He trusts Dean completely, he knows Dean will take care of him, won’t do anything he’s uncomfortable with, and will stop immediately if he just says the word. But Castiel doesn’t _want_ him to stop. He just wants Dean, and he wants him now. Dean grins at his reply and then unbuttons Castiel’s jeans, unzipping them with his teeth while looking up at Castiel through his eyelashes. Just the sight alone is enough to send a thick stream of slick gushing down the back of his thighs, drenching the mattress beneath him. Dean frees him of his jeans, dragging them down over his thighs and discards them on the floor. Castiel’s cock is straining against the fabric of his boxers, which are wet with precome and slick. Dean’s blessedly sinful mouth lightly traces over the hard curve of his cock and then he’s ridding Castiel of his boxers, allowing his erection to spring free of the confining material.

Without breaking eye contact, Dean kisses away the bead of precome at the head of Castiel’s cock, causing them both to groan, Castiel at the feeling and Dean at the taste. It’s all the warning he gets before Dean is drawing the flat of his tongue down the length of Castiel’s cock and then back up, letting Castiel get used to the feel of his mouth before he goes any further. The hot slip and slide of Dean’s tongue is nearly enough to make Castiel come on the spot, and he has to fight the heat boiling low in his belly to keep from coming so quickly. The moment Dean abruptly takes Castiel all the way into his mouth, lips wrapped tight at the base of his dick while the head hits the back of Dean’s throat, Castiel chokes out an incoherent sound and knots his fingers in Dean’s hair. “Dean,” he pants, eyes rolling back into his head when Dean makes a humming sound that sends all kinds of delicious vibrations through his cock. Dean’s mouth and throat are so wet and tight and hot, it’s all Castiel can concentrate on as his alpha slides his lips up Castiel’s length. 

The motion has Castiel gasping and clutching tighter, overcome with ecstasy, and the pressure mounting in his groin builds faster, coming to a head. The alpha’s eyes are searing into his own when he curls his tongue around the head of Castiel’s cock and dips his tongue into the slit, and then Castiel is _gone_. Lights go off in his head as that mounting pleasure crescendoes and crests, muscles locking as his back arches and he throws his head back, blistering wave after wave of pleasure rippling through his entire body. The pulse of Dean’s throat around his cock as he swallows down Castiel’s release has the pleasure spiking, a second wave of euphoria bearing down on him, leaving him nearly delirious. Dean pulls off with an obscene sucking _pop_ and Castiel’s body gives out, muscles going weak and lax as he sags limply into the mattress, exhaling the breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding. “Beautiful, my beautiful omega,” Dean praises, leaning over him to kiss him slow and deep. Castiel can taste himself on Dean’s lips, and his cock gives a feeble twitch at the combined flavor of Dean and himself. It takes a moment for his vision to focus and his head to clear enough for him to think beyond the many layers of bliss wrapped around his brain. Dean’s on his knees next to him, looking down at Castiel with a completely wrecked look on his face, bottom lip caught between his teeth as the alpha takes in Castiel’s surely debauched appearance. He can only imagine what he looks like right now. Dean, however, is absolutely gorgeous in this state of arousal, with his cheeks flushed, hair tousled, pupils blown wide. He smells even better, like unadulterated ambrosia, the woodsy musk of his desire most prominent. Realization finally sinks in: Dean hasn’t been taken care of yet.

The post-orgasm haze clouding Castiel’s brain is to blame for his taking so long to comprehend the huge, hard bulge tenting the alpha’s jeans. He fights through the lethargy that’s settled into his bones and reaches up to cup Dean’s cock through his pants, smiling at the groan he gets in return. Dean shakes his head, covering Castiel’s hand with his own. “S’okay, Cas, I’ll just take care of myself, you need to rest,” Dean advises, lifting Castiel’s hand in his own and bringing it to his mouth so he can brush kisses over his knuckles. The pleasant hum of satiation circulating through him is trying to coax him to sleep, making his eyelids droop, but he fights it, raising his free hand to grasp at Dean’s groin.   
“We can sleep after I use my mouth on you,” Castiel amends, and Dean looks torn between taking care of Castiel in the state he put him in and giving in to his desire to receive oral pleasure as well.   
“Are you sure, buddy?” Dean asks, voice rough and low with want. The pheromones he’s emanating help to wake Castiel up enough to do what he intends, and he nods, fingers fumbling with the button on Dean’s jeans. His hands are shaky and weak from his orgasm, which is why he’s glad Dean takes over, deftly unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans so he can kick them off. Castiel hums impatiently, reaching for his alpha as he slips out of his shirt and discards it on the floor; he wants Dean close, wants to soak up his warmth and just be wrapped in his arms. But even more right now, he wants to _taste_ Dean, to feel Dean’s cock stretching his lips, to see Dean’s face as he orgasms at Castiel’s hand for the first time. He needs it, needs him, and Dean is taking far too long for his liking. After what feels like an eternity of wrestling with his clothing, Dean finally lies down on his back next to Castiel, skin completely bared. 

Castiel summons up whatever scraps of his strength remain and rolls onto his hands and knees so he can see his alpha. He sucks in a sharp breath as his eyes fall on the miles of tanned skin stretched over pronounced muscle and comes to a conclusion he’s reached hundreds of times before: Dean is beautiful. Freckles are scattered over his shoulders and lightly across his chest, which is flushed a light shade of pink. His penis is much longer and thicker than he’d anticipated, hard and flushed red where it is lying against his belly, leaking precome. Castiel’s mouth waters at the sight, a stream of fresh slick leaking from his hole despite his body already having achieved orgasm. “Like what you see?” Dean teases, grinning up at Castiel with a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead.   
“Of course. You are absolutely breathtaking, Dean,” Castiel rasps, eyes traversing the rest of Dean’s body appreciatively. Dean’s cheeks flush a deeper shade of scarlet at the compliment and he squirms against the sheets, another bead of precome dripping from his dick to pool on his stomach. He lowers his eyes almost shyly, and Castiel reaches up to tip his chin back so that Dean’s eyes are on his. “I want to see you, Dean. The whole time.” Castiel says, and when Dean complies, he settles over his legs on his stomach, head right above Dean’s cock. Dean is so big Castiel isn’t even sure how he’s going to be able to take him in his hole when the time comes for it, but he isn’t going to wonder about that now, not when both he and Dean are desperate for him to continue. 

Dean holds his gaze as Castiel slowly wraps his lips around the head of Dean’s penis and sucks lightly. A shock runs through Dean’s body and his breathing hitches, but he doesn’t tear his eyes away from Castiel’s. Dean tastes unbelievably heady and pure here, and Castiel immediately wants more. He takes Dean further into his mouth, as far as he can until the head of Dean’s cock hits the back of his throat and his lips are stretched obscenely wide around his shaft. Dean lets out a strangled cry and threads his fingers in Castiel’s hair, and Castiel doesn’t waste any time in giving Dean what he needs. He hollows his cheeks and sucks as he pumps Dean in and out of his mouth, one hand coming up to stroke the part of Dean’s cock that he can’t fit in his mouth. Castiel runs the flat of his tongue along the sensitive underside and back up. Dean’s chanting his name in a fluid stream now, his hips rising off the bed for more contact, which Castiel gladly provides, tilting his head so that he can get another inch of Dean inside his mouth, easing him down his throat. He can feel Dean’s knot swelling where it tugs at his lips each time he moves his head, and he hums his approval, speeding up his rhythm despite the vague ache of his jaw. He traces a vein on Dean’s cock with his tongue and grazes over his alpha’s length lightly with his teeth. It’s just enough to give Dean a full-body shudder, the alpha choking on Castiel’s name. 

“C-Cas, I’m close, fuck, you need to--” Dean gently tugs at his hair, urging him to pull off, but Castiel only increases the intensity of his ministrations, sucking harder and curling his tongue over the head, pumping his hand faster over the base of Dean’s cock. He knows Dean is just trying to be courteous, attempting to warn Castiel before he comes in his mouth, giving him the chance to pull off now. But Castiel doesn’t _want_ to pull off. He wants Dean, all of Dean, wants to taste him, wants to be filled with the warmth of his release, wants Dean to mark him from the inside in one of the most intimate of ways. He tries to communicate that through their eye contact and the way he helps Dean hurtle toward orgasm. Castiel bobs his head and suddenly takes Dean as far down his throat as he can, and that’s all it takes to push Dean over the edge. Dean comes with a breathless cry, hips involuntarily arching off the bed as his swollen knot pushes past the tight ring of Castiel’s lips. Dean’s cock pulses against his tongue and load after load of hot, thick come fills his throat. Castiel swallows it down as quickly as he is able, groaning at the deep, heady flavor of his alpha. Dean’s cock twitches and several more loads of come flow down his throat, so much so quickly that it overflows his mouth and smears over his lips, dripping down his chin. Still, Castiel swallows down all Dean has to offer eagerly, wanting to be filled with as much of his alpha’s release as he is able.

Dean exhales a gusty sigh after the last load of come flows down Castiel’s throat, gently easing Castiel’s head into the cradle of his hands and off of his spent cock. Castiel flops down onto the mattress beside him, humming contentedly when Dean immediately pulls him up against his chest, wrapping him up tight in his arms and holding him close. He nuzzles Dean’s neck and Dean buries his face in Castiel’s hair, peppering the crown of his head with adoring kisses. “Fuck, Cas, that was….You are _amazing_ ,” Dean breathes, tightening his arms as Castiel kisses Dean’s collarbone. His belly is full and distended with Dean’s release, and he’s filled with warmth and the possessive, satisfying knowledge that both he and Dean have left their mark on each other in such an intimate way.   
“I love you,” Castiel mumbles sleepily, eyes already starting to slip shut. Dean cups his face and kisses him deeply in reply, his own silent form of returning the sentiment. Tucked against Dean’s side, warm and safe in his alpha’s arms, both of them satiated and comfortable thanks to the other, Castiel feels drowsy contentment shroud his mind, the blissful haze deepening as Dean massages gentle circles into his lower back and continues to plant kisses in his hair.

“Get some rest, buddy. You can stay right here with me tonight, and every night, if you want to,” Dean murmurs, letting go of Castiel for just one second so he can pull the sheets and duvet over them. Yes, every night, Castiel wants Dean forever. He wants him as his mate, wants to be bonded with him, wake up lying in his arms every morning for the rest of their lives. Castiel perks up at that, just barely managing to form a coherent response before the sleepiness in his brain starts to pull him under.   
“Yes. Every night.” He feels Dean’s lips curve up in a smile against his temple, followed by more kisses. Castiel nestles closer and Dean tangles their legs together, making sure Castiel is completely covered by the blankets and is comfortable before he reaches over to turn the bedside lamp off.   
“My bed’s yours for as long as you want it.” Dean whispers just as Castiel is dropping off into sleep. “Me as well.” Dean adds, so soft Castiel barely catches it. He isn’t sure if he imagines the unconcealed longing in his alpha’s voice or not, but soon enough, he’s fast asleep in Dean’s arms and all that’s on his mind are his dreams. Dreams where Dean is his True Mate and he gets to spend every night of the rest of their lives curled just like this against Dean’s chest, safe and content in their nest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The emotional roller coaster continues :') Have some fluff and smut before shit hits the fan, hahaha XD 
> 
> So I've been doing some planning and stuff and I'm trying to figure out how the rest of the fic is going to be split up chapter-wise from here on out. One of the things I need to take into account is whether or not I should have a second epilogue chapter with m-preg that would be optional to read for those of you who want it, but not so vital to the story that it must be read, for those of you who aren't fans of m-preg. So: how many of you guys would be interested in an m-preg chapter at the end? I'd be willing to write one if it's something that you all want to read! Comment below and let me hear your thoughts on it. :) 
> 
> Also, I think it's worth mentioning that in this version of omegaverse, all male alphas have much larger genitals and produce a lot more come than males of other secondgenders. Yay evolution! XD Also, in this version, nesting -- or the act of an alpha building a nest for their new mate -- is a very important aspect of mating rituals and will be covered more later on in this fic. Just wanted to bring these things to attention, because they're important in this version of omegaverse and will be explored throughout the duration of this fic. :)
> 
> As always, endless thanks for your support, kudos, comments, bookmarks, everything! I love you guys so much <3


	20. Up In Arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never truly appreciated having each chapter beta'd for me until I had to do it entirely myself :') bless your soul, Astrophilla, you were a true warrior beta and I miss you <3
> 
>  
> 
> (in other words, this isn't beta'd, sorry)

***

Castiel wakes to vaguely annoying classic rock blaring from Dean’s phone, the alarm just loud enough to pull him into consciousness. Dean mumbles a bunch of unintelligible nonsense at the noise, and at the sound of the alpha’s voice, low and scratchy from sleep, a thrill of amazement and euphoria courses through Castiel’s veins. He’s in Dean’s bed, completely entangled with his alpha, something he’s dreamed of for months and it’s finally _happening_. Dean shifts, freeing one of his arms from around Castiel’s waist, and leans over to turn the alarm off. He smells like spilling sunshine and rich pine, and something even deeper, something distinctly _Dean_. It’s creating all sorts of feedback loops in Castiel’s brain, contributing to the blissful sleepy haze he’s wrapped in. The heat of Dean is comforting on a base level, his furnace-like warmth surrounding Castiel, soaking into his skin and making him feel safe and content. The alpha’s muscular arms coiled tightly around his waist contribute to the effect, and Castiel wants nothing more than to stay exactly like this, feeling more cozy and protected than he’s ever felt in his entire life. His alpha lets out a happy sigh and curls back around him, returning his arms to their previous position, hands splayed possessively across Castiel’s lower belly. Dean nuzzles his face against the nape of Castiel’s neck, scent marking him, and Castiel tips his head back to expose his throat further. “Mornin’, angel,” Dean rasps against his collarbone, showering it with butterfly kisses.   
“Good morning, Dean.” Castiel hums in response, opening his eyes so he can see his beautiful alpha. 

Dean’s sleepy green eyes are there to greet him, softer around the edges yet burning with affection as he gazes back. He smiles crookedly and plants a kiss on the top of Castiel’s head, pulling him closer so they’re flush together. Dean’s skin is blessedly hot against his own, the feel of it tantalizing and wondrously intimate. Castiel reaches up for a good morning kiss and Dean eagerly meets him the rest of the way, the soft press of lips gentle and unbelievably sweet, sending pleasant tingles dancing along his spine. Yes, this is completely worth the wait, getting to wake up next to Dean like this. The only problem is that the alarm means they need to get up and go to work, despite how his mind is quickly falling closer to unconsciousness. “You’re so beautiful,” Dean rumbles after pulling away so he can tuck Castiel’s head under his chin, hands coming up to cup the back of his neck and head protectively. Castiel kisses Dean’s throat in response, murmuring,  
“And you are, as well,” before letting his eyes slip shut, chasing the trindles of sleep tugging at the edges of his brain. He can’t help it; Dean holding him like this is more than enough to have him forgetting about everything else, the sense of safety and contentment his alpha gives him easing him back to unconsciousness. He drifts as Dean hums a song under his breath, one hand still cupping the back of Castiel’s head while the other rubs up and down his spine in a rhythmic, soothing motion. Castiel is nearly asleep when Dean shifts, gently laying Castiel down on the mattress before he starts to get up.

Castiel grumbles, opening one eye to see what’s going on while reaching for his alpha. Dean stops singing and chuckles softly, the sound sending a buzzing warmth spreading out from behind Castiel’s sternum. “Y’gotta let go, buddy. I gotta get up,” Dean coaxes, gently pulling away so he can get out of bed.   
“Not just yet, a few more minutes of this won’t make either of us terribly late for work,” Castiel reasons drowsily, but Dean has already slipped out of bed, now standing in front of the closet as he dresses. Castiel can’t help but let his eyes trace Dean’s figure, taking in his broad shoulders, well-muscled chest, and slightly bowed legs. Despite the distracting sight of Dean’s breathtakingly exquisite body, Castiel immediately feels colder without Dean next to him, and an involuntary shiver rolls down his spine, leaving Dean frowning at him as he steps into a pair of clean boxers.  
“You don’t have to get up yet, you still have some time left to sleep. I’ll come wake you up in an hour, okay?” Dean offers, pressing a lingering kiss between Castiel’s eyes. The alpha tucks the blanket around him, sealing in the leftover heat, and he snuggles down into the blankets, burying his face in Dean’s pillow and inhaling the scent of him there. He wants Dean right back how they were a moment ago, but this is as close as he can come, given that Dean needs to get up and do things.   
“Okay,” Castiel mumbles, sleep already tugging him back into its waiting arms, eyelids slipping shut. “But y’gotta come back soon. ‘S cold without you.” Dean laughs softly, the sound thick with fondness and affection, and Castiel feels Dean’s hand card through his hair.  
“You got it. Now get some more rest,” Dean encourages him, but Castiel is already out.   
***

It feels like Castiel’s only been asleep for a couple minutes before Dean is gently shaking his shoulder, his warm breath tickling Castiel’s ear as he chimes, “Time to wake up, buddy! I made breakfast!” Castiel can hear the smile in his voice, the light-hearted happiness in each word, and he cherishes it. If he could, he’d keep Dean sounding like that forever. With a groan muffled by the pillow, Castiel rolls over onto his back and cracks his eyes open, squinting against the sunlight filling the bedroom. Dean must’ve opened the curtains, because the sun rays are bathing him in a golden light that plays beautifully along the curve of his cheekbones and the full pout of his lips, making his freckles more pronounced. Will there ever come a moment when Castiel isn’t taken aback by how breathtaking Dean is? Unlikely, Castiel thinks, as Dean’s lopsided smile grows and he holds out a plate piled high with food. “I made breakfast, eat up before it gets cold,” Dean orders, and Castiel can’t help but smile at him, because he’s just so glad Dean is _here_. He’s still struggling to wrap his head around the fact that he gets to have this, that he gets to have these mornings with his alpha, that he gets to have _Dean_ in one of the many ways he’s always wanted him.

“Thank you,” Castiel hums gratefully, sitting up against the pillows Dean stacks against the headboard for him. He leans over and gives Dean a quick peck on the lips as he receives the warm plate of waffles, sausage, fruit, and eggs, which all smell absolutely amazing. The alpha sets down a chilled bottle of Gatorade next to a steaming mug of coffee perched on the nightstand, and Castiel’s eyes widen as he takes in the large spread of food.  
“We, uh, burned a lot of calories last night, so you’ve gotta eat a big breakfast and refuel. And I’m not letting you leave this bed until you’ve eaten all that and rehydrated.” Dean commands with a smirk, sitting next to Cas on the bed and wrapping an arm around his waist to tug him up against his side. An overpowering wave of warmth floods through him at the gesture: Dean went to all this work and got up early so he could make Castiel breakfast in bed. The heavy sunshine-honey-cloves scent coming from the alpha gives him away, his caretaker alpha instincts urging him to provide for his mate and ensure his mate is well taken care of. Castiel remembers from some book he’d read that these instincts are always more pronounced than normal when an alpha is in rut, or just after sex. The warmth swells inside him, so strong he feels like it may burst through his ribs. He’s struck by how much Dean cares about him, how the alpha’s love for him is evident in every gesture, big or small. Dean grabs his own plate off the nightstand and hands Castiel a fork, and the two eat together in comfortable silence, Castiel enjoying Dean’s company and soaking in his heat as he gradually wakes up more and more. The haze of sleep is clearing from his brain as he takes a bite of Belgian waffle topped with strawberries and whipped cream, groaning at the flavor. 

Dean’s pupils blow wide at the sound and he ducks his head to kiss the whipped cream from Castiel’s lips, his tongue brushing over Castiel’s. He tastes sugary-sweet of his breakfast, but beneath that, Dean tastes like that distinctly _Dean_ flavor, pure and heady and downright addictive. Castiel closes his eyes and kisses deeper, his tongue stroking over the roof of Dean’s mouth as he chases the taste of his alpha. Dean pulls back with a chuckle, but his eyes are a shade darker with want and longing. “Not until you’ve eaten, buddy. We need to get some food in you first,” Dean reasons, though his voice is low with desire. Castiel rolls his eyes fondly, finding it rather endearing that Dean’s need to make sure Castiel is taken care of trumps his desire for intimacy. He’s probably right, though; if they start that now, they definitely won’t be eating anytime soon, and they both have to work soon anyways. With a sigh of surrender, Castiel concedes and cuts off another piece of waffle with his fork, chewing thoughtfully as he draws closer to the warmth of Dean’s side. True to his word, Dean watches over him until he’s finished the huge plate of breakfast and he’s downed both the whole bottle of Gatorade and cup of coffee. Dean gives him a satisfied smile and takes Castiel’s plate when he’s done. 

“Thank you, Dean. Everything tasted wonderful.” Castiel praises, and Dean puffs out his chest proudly, no doubt satisfied knowing he’s succeeded in taking care of his omega. A quick glance at the clock dampens his mood -- he has just enough time to get dressed without showering if he wants to make it to work on time. “We should get going -- if we leave in ten minutes, we’ll have just enough time not to be late.” Dean looks down at his watch.  
“Shit, you’re right! Okay, I’ll take care of the dishes and meet you downstairs.” Dean collects the plates and mugs quickly but then pauses, eyes seeking out Castiel’s. “Unless...you want to call in sick and we can just spend the day right here in my bed.” Dean lowers his voice, looking at Castiel through his lashes. “I can show you all the other ways I can make you feel good, all of which are way better than teaching a bunch of kids about the man upstairs or whatever.” The alpha winks and Castiel lets out a frustrated groan at how desperately he wants what Dean so seductively suggested. Of course he’d rather stay in bed with Dean, but his needs outweigh his wants and he _needs_ to go to work. He has so much to do, a responsibility to his students, and no subsitute teacher in line to take his place. As much as he wants to discover more of the other ways he and Dean can bring each other pleasure, they’ll have to wait until tonight.  
“I would love to...when I don’t have six classes of students to teach,” Castiel counters teasingly. “When I get home, however….” He trails off, letting Dean run with the thought. 

Dean sighs exaggeratedly and gets to his feet, arms laden with dishes. “Alrighty, at least that’ll give me something to look forward to while I’m at work.” He grins, emerald eyes bright, and kisses Castiel’s forehead before the omega rolls out of bed. The air of the room feels too cold on his skin without the warmth of Dean and the blankets, so he hurries to dig through his closet and dresser in search of clothing. Feeling Dean’s eyes on him, Castiel smirks to himself and bends over at the waist to step into his boxers, taking his time dragging them up his legs for Dean to see. The elastic waistband catches on the swell of his ass and Dean makes a choked sound by the door, a sudden wave of woodsy musk giving away his arousal. “C’mon, Cas, you’re killing me,” Dean protests, and Castiel just chuckles, opting to hurriedly put on his clothes rather than tease his alpha due to the time constraints and his desire to get warm.   
“I’ll meet you downstairs,” Castiel promises, watching smugly as Dean nods and swallows loudly, flustered and aroused, and heads out of the room. Castiel watches him leave, affection making his heart swell in his chest. Yes, he really, really is looking forward to coming home tonight.

***

Castiel should be outlining his lectures for the rest of this week and preparing reading material to go along with them, but the only thing he can focus on is his conversation with Sharon, and what it revealed about him and Dean. In other words, Castiel couldn’t write a lesson plan to save his life because all he can think about is _True Mates_. There’s an underlying thrill to Castiel’s thoughts whenever he thinks about it. That same brand of excitement, incredulousness, and sheer amazement that you feel when you’ve been given an immense and unexpected gift is close to what he’s feeling now as he dares to consider the phenomenon. At first it was hard to open himself up to the possibility that he and Dean are the literal one-in-one-million, that he and Dean are the biologically and spiritually perfect couple. The couple that nature itself designed for flawless compatibility, with a mating bond deeper than attraction and established on a more profound metaphysical level than any other pair, mated or not. He still has trouble grasping it, that something like this actually exists, let alone that it’s what he and Dean might be. He’s terrified to get his hopes up, to _believe_ , but it’s becoming increasingly harder not to, now that he’s going over everything between him and Dean that he’d missed the significance of until now and it’s all making startling sense.

Some of the most blindingly obvious indicators he’d noticed right from the get-go, but he had missed the importance of them initially. Since the first time Castiel had inhaled Dean’s scent, he’d been struck by just how ambrosial Dean had smelled to him. He is still captivated by his scent every time he takes a breath around his alpha, amazed by the effect it has on him, how no one’s scent has even come close to smelling as perfect as Dean’s. He knows that this scent factor plays strongly into whom one chooses for a mate, but he’s never heard of it being so powerful before, especially right from the beginning…. Castiel bites his bottom lip, not really reading the papers he’s looking at spread over his desk. There’s also the way he and Dean just _click_ , in all regards. Dean’s personality, mentality, and emotionality are all the opposite of his own, yet they go seamlessly hand in hand together. Their differences don’t detract from their relationship; instead, they only serve to strengthen their bond. In short: there’s no denying that they are similar and different in all the right ways, their compatibility perfect even beyond the roles of alpha and omega. Dean keeps Castiel on his toes and makes him feel more alive than he’s ever felt before, while Castiel grounds Dean, gives him something steady and constant that he can rely on, something genuine and far deeper than what he was used to. Castiel has what Dean needs, and Dean has what he needs. It’s nearly astonishing, how well they fit together. 

They’re also almost supernaturally in tune with each other, in such a way that Sharon’s assessment of their connection as a mating bond actually makes sense. Dean always seems to know exactly how Castiel is feeling, what he’s thinking when he doesn’t even say a word, what he wants, what he needs. Castiel is the same way with him; he can almost sense when Dean is beating himself up over something or he is lonely, even when they are miles apart, as if his subconscious is somehow linked with Dean’s. He can _feel_ Dean’s emotions just by being next to him, can anticipate each change in them with just the slightest body language indicator. They often don’t need words to understand how the other is feeling or thinking, because they already know, so much of their communication effortlessly tacit. Dean stumbles with expressing himself in words, lacking Castiel’s eloquence, yet it has never been a roadblock in their communication. Their communication, especially when verbal, isn’t flawless, but they always find a way to resolve things between them when it fails. They are so in sync, so in tune with each other, it could only be the result of a bond, despite the fact that they haven’t mated. How can two people have a metaphysical bond like that when they aren’t yet mated, or be so inherently compatible? 

There’s only one explanation he’s ever heard of.

With a growing sense of certainty, Castiel allows himself to absorb and accept the meaning behind all of this, how all of this evidence seems to suggest nature has designed him and Dean to be mates.

It’s so glaringly obvious, now that all of the details have fallen neatly into place, the puzzle pieces fitting together and finally completing the picture:

He and Dean are _True Mates_.

The bell rings, startling Castiel out of his introspective reverie. “Pick up a copy of tonight’s reading for homework on your way out and enjoy the rest of your day,” he calls over the clamor of his students packing up their stuff and eagerly heading out to lunch. He takes a minute to organize the papers on his desk, resolving to actually read them and plan his lessons out when he gets back from his lunch break. Grabbing his lunch from underneath his desk, Castiel heads down the hall and into the teacher’s lounge, taking his usual seat between Hannah and Samandriel, across from Meg and Ruby, a Chemistry teacher beta who has taken to sitting with them. “Hello, Castiel,” Samandriel greets him, and Meg and Ruby chime in with a similar greeting, while Hannah gives him a smile and little wave, her mouth full of food.   
“Good afternoon,” he replies, smiling a little bigger than normal at all of them. He can’t help it -- with Dean in his life, he’s almost always in a good mood; add his True Mates revelation on top of it and he’s surely radiating all kinds of happy omega pheromones. Four bites into his sandwich and there isn’t any doubt about it; even Ruby has perked up and seems more at ease. His pheromones are infecting everyone with his good mood, so much so that it’s almost comical. Uriel, an alpha who teaches Physics, even comes over to sit down at their table, noticeably less sulky and ominous than every other time Castiel has seen him. Everyone talks amicably with each other, Uriel subtly flirting with a pleased Samandriel, while Ruby and Meg interrogate Hannah on the new beta she’s currently seeing.

As much as he wants to be a part of the upbeat conversation, his thoughts keep gravitating back to Dean and he gets lost imagining what it would be like to tell his alpha that they’re True Mates, and what it would be like for them to _act_ on that knowledge. There are dozens of ways it could go, but all of them lead back to Dean fulfilling that one deep-seated, ever-present desire, completing and cementing the bond that already exists between them by mating him.

And good God, does Castiel want that. He wants to be Dean’s mate more than he is able to put into words. He wants _everything_ with Dean, things he’d never imagined himself wanting until the alpha had come into his life like all that Castiel hadn’t known he needed. He wants to be claimed, wants to belong only to Dean, wants the alpha to stake his claim, and he wants to do the same to Dean. It’s an almost tangible longing that buzzes through his veins at all times, like the bond is urging him to complete it, to find his True Mate and finish what they were made for. It’s deeper than instinct, though. Castiel’s heart is more than on board, and has been for quite awhile now. He loves Dean more than he thought he could ever love someone, and he wants Dean forever, in every way he can have him. His thoughts stray to fantasizing about what it will be like when they finally mate. He imagines Dean laying him down on his back in a nest he’s built for them, his eyes never once leaving Castiel’s as his fingers gently begin to open him up….Castiel gets lost with the thought, fantasizing about how it will feel when Dean presses his fingers into him. 

It’s then that he realizes that not only does he want to share that form of intimacy with Dean, but he’s _ready_ for it as well. There is no fear, no doubt, no expectation of pain, because Castiel _knows_. He’s burying all of his past experiences with sex in the ground, because this is Dean, and Dean is different. Dean won’t hurt him, and he isn’t going to let his bad experiences control him any more. He won’t let them stop him from having everything he wants with Dean. The alpha has shown him he’s the complete opposite of anything Castiel has ever had before, that Castiel’s pleasure and certainty is his priority, and not his own gratification. Dean’s shown him he loves him and will do anything to accommodate and take care of him, so he feels happy and safe. Dean is so incredibly selfless. His focus is always on Castiel, on making sure Castiel’s needs are met before his own, and it’s a testament to just how deeply Dean loves him. His alpha is such a good man, despite how he thinks so poorly of himself. Castiel wants to be there for the rest of his life to show him and remind him of just how amazing he truly is. There are no doubts or hesitations left in Castiel’s mind, body, or soul. He is ready, and he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there isn’t anything left to hold him back from having _everything_ with Dean.

“Earth to Castiel,” Meg teases, drawing him out of his reverie. Castiel blinks slowly, processing all the eyes that are on him and the amused silence. “There you are. Your head’s in the clouds, Clarence.”   
“Yeah, and you smell way too damn sweet, kinda like rotting fruit,” Ruby complains teasingly. Castiel feels his cheeks heat up in a faint blush, and he takes a bite of his sandwich so he has time to think of a reply. Unfortunately, they’re too curious to wait.  
“Whatcha daydreaming ‘bout, hmmm?” Meg prompts, playing with the straw in her soda. “Or should I say _who_?” She laughs and Samandriel chuckles, smiling at Castiel warmly, supportively. Castiel sighs for effect, but he can’t help the small smile that curls his lips up at the corners.   
“I believe it’s a safe bet that you all already know who,” Castiel responds, the blush burning a shade hotter.   
“What’s the occasion? Did he finally pop the question?” Hannah asks excitedly. All the attention is on Castiel and he lifts an eyebrow, somehow managing to keep his features schooled into a calm look when on the inside all the warmth in his chest is eager to make an appearance on his face.  
“To which question are you referring?” Castiel counters, stalling as he tries to come up with an answer that isn’t ‘Dean’s my True Mate and I can’t wait for our relationship and bond to progress’.   
“Don’t play dumb, you aren’t that dense,” Meg shoots back. “You know which question.” As if on cue, the bell rings, signalling their lunch break is over and they need to head back to their classes. Castiel chuckles inwardly, recalling the name of one of the TV shows he and Dean had marathoned recently. _Saved by the bell_.  
“Don’t smell so relieved, Castiel. We will be finishing this conversation tomorrow,” Ruby warns, and Castiel grins back sheepishly.   
“Yeah, we want all the details!” Hannah chimes in.   
“Okay, okay,” Castiel concedes, gathering up his things. He pushes his chair back in and turns toward the door, only for Samandriel to jog up beside him. 

“Castiel, I just want to wish you congratulations,” the small man says, offering him a toothy smile. “Pass on my best wishes to Dean. I’m positive you two will be wonderful mates for each other.” Castiel’s smile widens at the genuity in Samandriel’s voice.   
“I appreciate the sentiment, but we haven’t quite gotten there, yet.” Castiel explains.  
“Oh! No worries, I’m sure it won’t take much longer. Just by the way you smell, I can tell your bond is strong with him.” Samandriel assures him earnestly. Castiel considers this, how it further supports his True Mates theory. Omegas have been known to be more sensitive to bonds than alphas or betas are, which would explain why Sharon and now Samandriel have commented on how his and Dean’s bond seems abnormally strong. Castiel pats the omega on his shoulder thoughtfully.  
“Thank you, Samandriel,” he says gratefully, and the omega nods before hurrying back to his classroom so he won’t be late. Making his way back to his own classroom, Castiel can’t for the life of him get the smile off of his face. He’s brimming with that blissful warmth, warmth that somehow grows impossibly stronger with each thought of his alpha.

***

The pull between Dean and Castiel is almost magnetic when they’re both home and cleaning up after dinner. Castiel can hardly bear not to be touching his alpha in some way, and if Dean’s actions, looks, and scent are anything to go by, he’s right there with him. As soon as the last plate is dried and put away, Dean pushes Castiel up against the wall and kisses the breath from his lungs like his life depends on it. With a low moan, Castiel loops his arms around Dean’s neck and parts his lips to allow Dean’s tongue to plunder his mouth, the sound of their uneven breathing filling the air. The delicious woodsy musk of Dean’s scent is fueling Castiel’s own need, which has been simmering low ever since they woke up this morning. That desire flares into flames as Dean tugs Castiel’s bottom lip between his teeth, then sucks at it as a balm to the light sting his teeth left behind. Dean hitches Castiel’s leg up around his waist, supporting him effortlessly with his upper body pinning Castiel to the wall. Castiel wraps his legs around his alpha, pulling them even closer, greedy for Dean’s body pressed flush against his own. “Cas,” Dean murmurs, voice sultry and low, looking down at him with hooded eyes.   
“Dean. Alpha,” Castiel breathes, gulping in air, breathless from the wild, passionate way Dean ravaged his mouth. Dean’s pupils blow wide and a low, possessive growl sounds in the back of his throat, scent thickening to become richer, deeper, headier. He ducks his head to scrape his teeth gently up the side of Castiel’s neck then seals their lips again with renewed fervor. Castiel’s tongue slides along Dean’s and the alpha sucks at it, making Castiel’s eyes roll back at the heavenly suction. 

Dean pulls away just enough so their eyes can meet, his smoldering with sultry heat as he looks at Castiel. His lips brush over Castiel’s own when he speaks, voice rough like whiskey yet smooth as satin. “My Cas. My omega,” he murmurs before capturing Castiel’s lips with his own once again. It sends a flood of heat coursing through Castiel, pooling in his lower belly, and he arches his back off the wall to get even closer to his alpha, needing as much of him as he can get. Dean is hot against him, every hard, muscular line of his body flush with his own and encompassing him in heat. Dean kisses him until he’s lightheaded and gasping for breath, but then his touches change. His tongue begins to stroke lingeringly over every inch of Castiel’s mouth, as if committing it to memory, and each kiss becomes slower and more deliberate, the alpha drawing out each touch with unmistakable emotion behind each one. It’s almost worshipful, like Dean is devoted to unraveling Castiel with just his lips and tongue. Something shifts in Dean’s scent and it grows immeasurably sweeter, making Castiel’s heart stutter in his chest.

“How about we move this to my bedroom? Where I can take care of you properly,” Dean breathes, eyes roving over Castiel’s face. Castiel nods eagerly in agreement, and Dean swings him easily into his arms, carrying him with an arm around his shoulders and the other under his knees as he heads upstairs to his room. The alpha shuts and locks the door behind them and then gently lays Castiel down on his back in the middle of his bed, as if he’s fragile, something valuable that must be treated with care. Their eyes never leave each other’s as Dean lays himself over Castiel and ducks his head to claim Castiel’s lips in a slower yet far more heated and intense kiss. Castiel’s eyes fall shut as he loses himself in the taste and feel of Dean, reveling in his euphoria at getting to have this with his True Mate. Dear God, how he loves Dean. He wants Dean forever, wants him in every way he can have him. He’s been waiting so long for this, and now they’re both finally here, finally ready. He needs to tell Dean about what they are, so Dean can share in his ecstasy, fulfillment, and completion knowing that he has found his other half, the person designed for him, who he was made to be with. He can’t wait to see the look of shock on his alpha’s face, can’t wait to see how it dissolves into pure, unadulterated joy when his suspicions are confirmed and he realizes they share that one-in-a-million soul-deep bond, that they were designed to be mates, perfectly, intrinsically compatible.

“Dean,” Castiel says, reaching up to cup his alpha’s face in both hands. Dean’s eyes are intent on his own, the jade green filled with adoration and devotion. “You’re my True Mate, Dean,” Castiel tells him, overwhelmed by the elation that comes with declaring the title of their connection. His heart feels like it is going to burst with how overjoyed he is, with how much he loves this beautiful man in his arms. “I know it sounds unbelievable and that it’s extraordinarily rare, but Dean, _we’re_ the one-in-a-million. We were made to be together. We’re True Mates.” Castiel finishes breathlessly, smiling hugely as he gazes up at his alpha, every inch of him brimming with that exhilarating warmth.

Dean freezes, all of the emotion draining out of his face.

“There’s no such thing as True Mates.” 

His voice is flat, face stone cold, and Castiel swallows hard, taken aback by his reaction. The alpha carefully climbs off of Castiel, putting space between them as Castiel’s train of thought slams to a sickening halt. “There is! A vast amount of scientific research has been done on the anomaly before, there are True Mates all over the world who are together. It’s a very real occurrence,” Castiel starts, desperate to get Dean to see what he sees, brain refusing any other option, though an ominous, terrible darkness is starting to creep into his thoughts. Dean stares back hard, expression unmoved and eyes unnervingly empty. Castiel keeps going, feeling detached, as if he’s looking down at them from outside of his body, a horrible sense of dread starting to tighten around his insides. “There have been studies completed proving the existence of bonds that --”   
“They aren’t _real_ ,” Dean interjects, voice hard and leaving no room for argument, matching his angry eyes and the firm set of his jaw. He smells like thunderstorms, like the tension and electricity in the air before a hurricane, and it sinks into Castiel along with Dean’s words, shocking him with the reality of Dean’s response like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. The words dissipate on his tongue and he’s left fumbling with his thoughts, madly trying to get them in order so he can find the right way to explain things, to convince Dean, to make him _see_....   
“Dean--”  
“No!” Dean snaps, rising off the bed and onto his feet in one sudden movement. “True Mates is a bunch of Hollywood bullshit that greedy capitalistic knotheads invented to make money. It’s not real, it’s not science, it’s a load of rom-com crap that gives whoever is dumb enough to buy into it over-inflated, unrealistic views of love. That’s all it is, some fairytale garbage that means absolutely nothing.” He growls, hands balled into fists at his sides, muscle in his jaw jumping as he clenches it.

Castiel gets to his feet, matching Dean’s tense stance, the strength of his own emotions flaring to life inside of him. Dean’s tirade feels like a sucker punch to the gut, but the intensity of his own feelings carries him through, rendering him temporarily unable to fully absorb the impact of what Dean has just said. “I _know_ it’s real, I’ve felt it! I love you, Dean, and I’ve never felt like this for anyone else, ever. I’ve never wanted someone so much, never been so deeply affected by a person’s presence or scent or what they say or do. I’m so connected to you, we have to be True Mates, there’s simply no other explanation for how my biology has fallen perfectly in sync with yours, or how your scent is the best thing I have ever smelled. You can’t tell me it isn’t real when I _feel_ it!” Castiel argues, gesturing wildly, needing an outlet for the tension mounting inside him and between them. There’s a dangerous moment of silence, Dean’s eyes boring into his own, before he speaks. His voice is low and lethal, each word like stabbing a blade through Castiel’s chest.   
“You’re being blinded by your biology.” Dean hisses, his eyes cold and hard as ice. “The only reason you think your feelings add up to us being ‘True Mates’ is because I’m the only goddamn alpha you’ve really been exposed to since you’ve presented. That’s all this is, not fucking _True Mates_. You don’t actually feel this way, even though you think you do. I’m an alpha, you’re an omega, do the math. It’s just the pheromones and an ideal and you latched onto me because I’m the alpha that you got stuck with. It’s just nature doing what it’s supposed to, and you’re romanticizing it and deluding yourself into thinking it means something that doesn’t even exist.” 

Dean’s words wrap around his bones and seep into his blood and he feels like they’re smashing something inside him to bits and pieces, choking him with a terrible feeling he doesn’t even have a name for. But on top of that is _rage_. The pain he feels tearing at him is at the moment overshadowed by his anger, which is like a fire, sweeping through him and igniting everything in its wake. “You don’t get to tell me _what_ I feel!” He shouts, focusing in on that fury until he can’t even feel anything else, especially not that clawing pain. “You don’t know anything, not about what I’m feeling, not about my biology, and you definitely do not have any right to speak as if you do! You don’t get to tell me what I feel or invent degrading, awful explanations for it! You can’t push me away with that excuse, you can’t use ‘biology’ as some cure all explanation for anything that might mean more than you’re apparently able to handle. Don’t invalidate me like that, Dean Winchester, I am not some oblivious omega on a pheromone high who doesn’t know what he’s saying. I know every damn word and I mean every one of them, and my being an omega has absolutely _nothing_ to do with my perception of what’s going on, of how I feel, or what I think it all amounts to!” Castiel seethes, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, the words rolling sharply off his tongue and ringing with indignance. 

“That’s the whole fucking point! It has everything to do with being an omega, whether you want it to or not. You don’t know what you’re saying because you can’t distinguish your actual feelings from what your instincts confuse you into thinking are your feelings. And I have every right to point this out because if I don’t, how are you ever gonna snap out of these delusions you’ve convinced yourself are real?” Dean counters hotly, the tension between them nearly tangible. The combined scent of anger, hostility, and hurt is so thick in the air Castiel feels like he’s going to gag. Dean still doesn’t get what he’s saying, still doesn’t see the flaws in his harmful, toxic thinking, so Castiel raises his voice.  
“You’re not pointing out my ‘delusions’, you’re writing off feelings that I am fully aware are coming from my _heart_ and _actuality_ and _not my damned omega instincts!_ ” Dean scoffs at that, tone bitter and sardonic, already snarling back a reply.  
“You’re stubborn and refuse to see logic when it’s staring you in the damn face. You can’t separate your feelings from actuality enough to be able to tell when you’re wrong and you sure as hell won’t listen to the one person trying to talk some sense into you!” Dean shouts, throwing his hands up in exasperation, voice cutting and callous. There’s a beat of silence, a horrible epiphany suddenly changing the direction of Castiel’s thoughts, sucking all the heat out of him and replacing it with frigid ice.  
“You know what?” Castiel takes a breath and lowers his voice, each word controlled, deliberate, lethal. “Maybe I _am_ wrong. There’s no way we could be True Mates. True Mates shouldn’t be able to make each other feel so _terrible_.” Castiel’s voice cracks on the last word and he feels everything inside him giving way, collapsing under the weight of the hurt and betrayal and every other painful emotion Dean has inspired in him. He can’t do this, he can’t keep standing here and arguing with Dean, he’s _breaking_. Castiel clenches his teeth, fighting the emotion clawing its way up his throat, choking him, making his eyes sting with budding tears. He doesn’t even look at Dean or stay long enough for the alpha to respond. 

Castiel unlocks the door with fumbling fingers, the tears in his eyes blurring his vision, and yanks it out of his way. His heart beat is deafening in his ears as he flees to his bedroom and away from Dean, the storm inside him finally breaking.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been really busy lately and it's hard for me to get each chapter written and edited in two weeks, so I unfortunately will temporarily be changing the update period to **every three weeks** until further notice.
> 
> Also, it's looking like we're gonna be moving the chapter count up somewhere just under 30 -- I've got too much content to cover in just five more chapters. 
> 
> Most importantly, thank you so much for reading and commenting and leaving kudos, I love you all so much <3


	21. A Hard Pill to Swallow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd, beware! (Unless you count me going over it like twenty times as betaing)

Dean feels like a live wire, his entire body vibrating with all the pent up emotion inside him.

He watches as Castiel slams the door with a thud that shakes the door frame, unable to do anything but stand there with his fists clenched into balls at his side, heartbeat thundering in his ears. The sudden silence left in Castiel’s wake is deafening, sinking quickly into Dean’s chest and wrapping around him. The omega’s words ring in his ears, somehow distinct and clear despite the overwhelming chaotic clamor of his thoughts. _True Mates shouldn’t be able to make each other feel so_ terrible. Dean pointedly ignores the sharp, tearing pain he feels remembering how Castiel’s voice had broken on the last word, or how _broken_ he had smelled, because if he doesn’t, he is going to fall apart. His feelings and thoughts are such a complete and horrible clusterfuck that he doesn’t even know where to begin. Everything just seems to have collapsed in on itself, because nothing good in Dean’s life lasts. He doesn’t get to have true love or whatever, he doesn’t get to entertain the possibility that he could get a mate, let alone someone like Castiel, whom he’s actually _in love_ with. But he did, he fucking believed it, he had that stupid hope that this was all so real, that it was his, that this impossible, perfect thing he had with the man he loves could be what he didn’t even dare to dream of. And now look where he is, where Cas is, where that stupid fucking hope got him. 

Castiel doesn’t really love him. 

But Dean had been convinced he had -- up until fifteen minutes ago, that is. He allowed himself to believe that not only did Cas actually love him back, but that because he did, it meant they could have _everything_ together. The whole mates package, the happily-ever-after, everything Dean didn’t even imagine in his wildest dreams. Cas was even convinced that he was in love, that his feelings were real and genuine, but Dean _gets_ it now. He can’t believe he didn’t see all of this earlier, couldn’t look beyond his own little world of happy-lovey feelings to see the actuality of things. Reality is Cas only thinks he loves Dean because his instincts are telling him that’s what it is. The pheromones, the proximity, the roles, the instincts -- it’s all that’s responsible for how Cas ‘feels’ about him. Biology manipulated him into thinking he was in love, and Dean is only now pulling his head out of his ass and realizing it. He shouldn’t be surprised, not really, because in what world would he as Dean Winchester, not as alpha to an omega, be loveable? His self hatred burns red-hot, like a pile of coals being stoked to life in his belly. It was hard to believe to begin with, that someone like Cas could love him, could think he’s worth everything and more. Take the biological roles out and there’s no way that Cas would or could love him. The omega in Cas loves the alpha in Dean, and that is all this ever was.

The understanding had begun to sink in when Cas started talking about True Mates. When Dean was a kid, Dad had been sure to point out over and over again that True Mates wasn’t a real thing, that it was nothing more than a gimmick Hollywood writers and producers invented and recycled to make money. Every time they would watch a movie or TV show involving True Mates, he and Sam would be lectured on all the fallacies of the concept and warned about how they should never fall for the marketing ploy. Dad was a no-bullshit man who hated fairy tale crap and was a bitter realist about anything and everything. He’d drilled some of that into Dean, leaving him to voluntarily scoff at all the commercials and ads depicting, referencing, or alluding to True Mates. While Sam had always found the notion comforting and romantic, like most people did, Dean was a lot more cynical, always rolling his eyes at his brother when he’d talk about one day finding his True Mate. It’s no surprise; Dean had always been more absorbent of every hard lesson Dad taught, while Sam was more rebellious, choosing to believe what he wanted to. When Cas declared that he thought they were True Mates, the gravity of the situation had hit Dean, and he realized that just like the rest of society, Cas had been duped into believing perfectly compatible couples with special bonds existed. Not only that, but he was convinced that he and Dean were one of those couples with those bonds -- were True Mates.

Then Cas had given his explanation about how they just fit so well together, and everything started to add up to Dean, but definitely not in the way that it apparently did to the omega. Just how misled Cas was hit him with shocking, horrible realization. Cas thought their biology and feelings all fitting hand-in-hand meant they were True Mates, but Dean could see it for what it was, realizing in that moment that Cas’ biology was responsible for the omega’s ‘feelings’ towards him. Cas had latched onto the ideal and was consequently deluded by nature and society’s portrayal of the perfect couple into thinking that he and Dean were something and had something that didn’t even exist. It had made something in Dean’s chest _collapse_ , splintering into hundreds of pieces with that painful realization, which is why he’d been such a dick to Cas. Cas didn’t deserve all the anger Dean had thrown his way; he was just deceived by his secondgender and misled by society, he had no idea how things really were. Dean shouldn’t have been so harsh just because Cas had inadvertently made him realize what was really going on between them, and he understands that now. But it had just been so hard to even breathe, feeling like his ribs had been kicked out from the inside by the flooring, terrible realization that Cas’ ‘love’ for Dean was purely biological. It hurts so goddamn much, because while Dean now knows Cas’ feelings for him are just effects of evolution and biology taking their course, his feelings for Cas are one hundred percent real.

Dean is without a doubt irrevocably, impossibly, deeply in love with Castiel. He _knows_ that these feelings are rooted in actuality, that biology has not even touched them. It’s unquestionable that all he feels for Cas is real and independent of evolution’s drive to find him an omega to reproduce with, which is why it makes this so much harder. Cas thinks what he feels for Dean is love, but it’s his instincts that are making him feel that way. Dean, however, _knows_ what he feels for Cas is real. He’s known what it feels like to be swept away by biology, for his instincts to try and convince him it’s love when really it’s just evolution doing what it can to prolong the human race, like the one time he had attempted to sleep with an omega. Even in that moment, he knew it was biology making him feel that way, which is why he knows his feelings for Cas are unmistakably not that. This makes everything hurt a hell of alot worse, because simply put, Dean’s really, actually in love with Castiel, but Castiel isn’t really in love with him. Dean’s emotions and feelings are, well, just that -- _feelings_ , untampered with by his secondgender. But Cas’ aren’t -- they’re a biological lie they both fell for, Dean only having realized it just fifteen minutes ago.

Dean collapses on the edge of his bed, burying his head in his hands and squeezing his eyes shut tight. Everything is a trainwreck now, it’s all so fucked up and everything hurts worse than anything he’s ever felt. He’s made such a fucking mess of things with Cas -- he didn’t even get through to him, didn’t make him understand all the issues with what’s between them. Cas has no idea, and all Dean did was hurt him. He should’ve gone about it differently, should have reasonably, calmly explained it, fuck, he makes such bad decisions whenever his feelings are involved. Not only did he fail at making Cas see the truth, but he also fucked things up between them real bad by being so tactless and cold-hearted.

Where does he go from here?

***

Dean couldn’t have meant what he said, he can’t really believe that all of Castiel’s feelings for him are because he is an omega and Dean is an alpha. 

Castiel refuses to believe it. There is no way the alpha could be so horribly mistaken.

He repeats it to himself over and over like a mantra, desperate to convince himself it’s the truth. Castiel shuts his bedroom door and then slowly slides his back down it until he’s sitting on the floor, his knees bent and pulled close to his chest. He wraps his arms around them, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears starting to leak over his waterline. Any anger and indignance he had at what Dean said drains away, a dreadful brand of sorrow, betrayal, and fear taking its place. It’s raw and painful and he can’t bear it, so he smothers it with denial. If he just tells himself that Dean didn’t mean what he said enough times, then he eventually he will believe it’s true.

The only sound in the choking silence of his room is the ragged in-out of his breathing and the too-fast rhythm of his heart, somehow amplified in the crushing silence. His face feels too hot as he swallows dryly, throat tight as he fights back the urge to cry, mercilessly biting at his bottom lip to stifle any sounds that might want to accompany the silent tears.

The look in Dean’s livid green eyes is seared into Castiel’s head. He sees the coldness, the anger, the detachment in every stony line of Dean’s face as his words replay on a loop, the cutting edge to the alpha’s voice shaking him to his core. _True Mates is a bunch of Hollywood bullshit._ Castiel shudders, his breaths growing more jagged, and his chest heaves as he fights the growing imminence of breaking down. _You’re being blinded by your biology._ He’s trembling, his eyes mashed shut, a nauseating pressure building in his chest. _You can’t separate your feelings from actuality enough to be able to tell when you’re **wrong**_.

A loud sob tears through his chest, piercing the silence. 

There is no possibility that Dean didn’t mean _every word_. Each sentence was deliberate and spoken with detrimental conviction. Maybe Castiel really is delusional if he’s actually trying to convince himself that Dean didn’t mean it. Dean knew _exactly_ what he was saying and his intent was crystal clear from start to finish. 

It’s like the dam holding Castiel together collapses. Every ounce of that pain, that betrayal, insecurity, rejection, and everything else comes flooding forth. He’s drowning. Dean doesn’t believe they were made for each other, he doesn’t believe they were designed to be mates. He completely shut Castiel down when he even tried to explain how True Mates exist and that they were a testament to just how real it is. It had broken Castiel’s heart, because he had been _so happy_ to share his ecstasy and fulfillment with Dean, having learned the truth of what they were. Dean had written him off by calling him delusional, dismissing all of Castiel’s extremely heartfelt feelings, ones he’d trusted Dean with and made himself vulnerable by sharing, and that _wrecked_ him. Dean thinks that every feeling Castiel had for him was biological, that Castiel didn’t really love him, that their entire relationship was based on the omega in Castiel being attracted to the alpha in Dean. He was convinced Castiel didn’t have any feelings for him that were actually his own. The tears come more forcefully now as he curls in on himself and shakes with the force of his sobs. 

Castiel loves Dean. More than he’s ever loved anyone before. Dean makes him happy just by being in the same room as him. He always knows how to cheer him up, understands him better than anyone ever has. Dean also cares about him above all else, always putting Castiel first and making sure his needs are met before his own. Castiel _knows_ beyond a shadow of a doubt that he loves Dean, has loved him for months, and it is unquestionable that his being an omega has had absolutely no part in that love. It does have a part in the attraction, yes, but Castiel’s feelings for Dean are entirely his own, independent of his secondgender. He’s the only one who is able to make that claim about his feelings; not Dean, because only he knows for a fact what they are and where they come from. How could Dean write him off like that? How could Dean just dismiss everything he feels with _it’s just biology_ , how could he?

Castiel’s chest shudders as he takes in a deep breath, attempting to wipe the tears off his face. It’s futile -- his entire face is dripping wet with them. He sucks in a ragged breath, struggling to get a grip on himself now that the crying is starting to abate, giving way to anger and a different brand of pain. Dean _hurt_ him. He told Castiel how he felt like it was his place to, like he had the unquestionable authority to do so. He immediately and coldly shot Castiel down when he mentioned True Mates, and he was even more hurtful when Castiel tried to explain it to him, taking something special and sacred and treasured to Castiel and smashing it to bits and pieces with ‘it’s Hollywood bullshit’ and ‘you’d have to be a dumbass to believe in it’. Dean had invalidated Castiel by chalking up everything he felt so deeply to biology, which regardless of whether or not he truly believed it, was immensely disrespectful, belittling, and hurtful. Dean hadn’t treated him like an equal; he’d yelled at him like he was some pheromone-blinded omega who was too naive and incapable of knowing or meaning what he’s saying and feeling. Castiel was right: True Mates don’t do that to each other. They shouldn’t be able to hurt each other so bad, and shouldn’t disregard or disrespect one another like that. But they definitely should share mutual feelings of love, respect, and a soul-deep bond, which Dean obviously didn’t. With a sickening sense of surety, Castiel realizes what this means for him and Dean.

They can’t be True Mates. And Castiel can’t stay with Dean.

Dean isn’t right for him. Their relationship, which just a few hours earlier Castiel had been convinced was quite literally as perfect, meaningful, and deep as a relationship could be, is quite obviously now flawed and broken because of what Dean had revealed about his side of the bond. If there is in fact a bond at all, that is. After all of this, Castiel still feels like they do share something special and deep, and it hurts so incredibly bad, because he knows it’s because he is still in love with Dean.

Even after everything, Castiel doesn’t believe he’ll ever stop loving Dean.

It makes this a hundred times more agonizing, deciding that this isn’t right for him. He focuses in on his anger at what Dean had done, how he’d hurt him, and uses it to fuel his resolve. 

Castiel needs to leave. He needs to separate himself from the alpha and start fresh, needs to get out of this relationship and leave so Dean can’t do any more damage. He needs to forget everything he thought about Dean being his True Mate and try to move on so that it can’t hurt him anymore. 

He’s sure of it. The only problem is the logistics of it. Where is he going to go? He needs to leave as soon as he can, because a clean break will heal faster (though so long as he still loves Dean, he doubts he will ever heal, and he can’t imagine himself not loving the alpha), but he has nowhere to go. He could maybe get an apartment or something near the school he works at, or -- Castiel sighs heavily, heaving himself to his feet. He’s so drained, his thoughts spinning in useless circles. His whole body feels too heavy, like someone has injected lead into his veins and it’s weighing him down. His joints ache and his eyes burn from all the crying, throat dry from dehydration. He could use a shower, but more than anything, Castiel just wants to sleep. He heads over to the dresser to get some pajamas, shoving one hand into the pocket of his jeans to remove his phone. His fingers brush over a crumpled ball of paper squished up underneath his phone, and he curls his hand around it, initial confusion quickly melting away as he realizes what he’s holding. 

An idea suddenly hits him with shocking force, turning his thoughts in a complete one-eighty. 

Castiel _does_ have a place to go, with someone who actually wants him. Someone who won’t tell him how he feels, someone who won’t be able to hurt him like Dean has. This is the answer to all of the problems that he can fix. It’ll hurt the alpha, Castiel is sure of it, and he knows it’s wrong, but some small, dark part of him wants Dean to hurt like he’s hurting now. He pulls his hand out of his pocket and uncrumples the ball, reading the seven digits printed neatly on the back of the receipt.

He has a phone call to make. 

***

Pre-dawn light is starting to leak through slats in the window blinds by the time Castiel has finished packing up everything he owns, which is admittedly not that much. He managed to stuff all of it into his one suitcase, though the zipper won’t come all the way around and the pockets are bulging. Castiel feels oddly, eerily calm, all of his emotions wiped clean from his mind. His focus is on making sure he’s gotten everything packed neatly away, thoughts blank but for going over his mental checklist of all of his possessions. That just leaves the couple items he’d left out intentionally so he could carry them on his person: his phone and wallet. His joints creak from disuse as he rises to his feet and goes to retrieve them off the nightstand, pocketing them before he smoothes his hands over the faint wrinkles in his slacks. It’s just then that he hears the soft rap of knuckles against his bedroom door and he freezes, coldness washing through him. His heart stutters in his chest and then picks up double time, but other than that, he keeps his reaction carefully schooled, all of his emotions locked up tight and shoved to the back of his mind. He doesn’t want them interfering with what he’s about to do. “Come in.” Castiel calls, his voice carefully even.

Dean opens the door and enters hesitantly, like he’s expecting Castiel to yell at him to get out. His scent hits Castiel all at once and it’s staggering, too many horrible feelings to name permeating the air. Castiel has to fight not to choke on it, the potency of it overwhelming. He breathes through his mouth but it doesn’t help much, Dean’s scent delving deep inside him and constricting around his brain and heart. He can’t let it affect him, he can’t let it influence how things go from here. Dean looks disheveled, like he hasn’t slept in days. His face is haggard, green eyes full of exhaustion and the same feelings Castiel caught in his scent, the normally verdant green murky. Their eyes meet and they stare at each other for an immeasurable moment before Dean clears his throat and looks away. The space between them seems charged, tension trembling in the air. “I, uh, I wanted to talk to you,” Dean starts, his eyes unsure as they once again find Castiel’s own. His voice is uneven, rougher than normal. Dean is very clearly as affected by what happened last night as Castiel is; even though the alpha is trying not to show it, Castiel can read him so well it’s blaringly obvious. Whatever Dean is going to say, Castiel needs to say what he must first. The sooner he tells Dean, the better.

“And I need to talk to you.” Castiel takes a deep breath, continuing before Dean can stop him. “I’ve packed my things, Dean. I’m leaving.” It takes a few seconds for the magnitude of Castiel’s words to hit Dean, and when it does, the shift in Dean’s scent is so sudden Castiel nearly gets whiplash. The smell of his shock and disbelief quickly balloons into that of thunderstorms and lightning, becoming overpowering in just seconds, so much so that Castiel has to take shallow breaths. Dean looks down at the suitcase on the floor, then at the made bed and bare closet. 

“You can’t be serious,” Dean says incredulously, eyes searching Castiel’s for any suggestion that he’s bluffing. Castiel just stares back, annoyed by Dean’s denial, how Dean doesn’t even seem to realize just how badly and seriously he has impacted their relationship or how he’s hurt Castiel. He waits impatiently for the realization to dawn on Dean’s face; his taxi should be here any minute now, and he doesn’t want to keep the driver waiting. Dean’s eyes narrow and his jaw tightens, nostrils flaring, and Castiel knows that full impact of his words is finally dawning on him, that he’s beginning to see just how serious Castiel is and what the repercussions of his actions are. The disbelief is beginning to fade out as Dean balls his hands into fists, his scent now darkening with outrage. Castiel doesn’t outwardly flinch at the staggering scent of Dean’s feelings, though they are making him sick to his stomach. His resolve is steel. He’s had hours to think this over, to dwell on what Dean’s said and done to him, to their relationship. Dean is going to have to realize and accept the outcome, just like Castiel had to during the past several agonizing hours. Castiel only finds the alpha’s outrage annoying -- Dean has no right to be angry with him for leaving. Dean brought this on himself. He’s neither entitled to Castiel nor Castiel’s company, and the fact that he’s acting so offended and angry only grates on Castiel’s nerves.

“I am serious. I’ve already called for a taxi.” Castiel replies, allowing his irritation to seep into his voice, and Dean’s eyes bulge. He sucks in a sharp breath, then starts shaking his head violently, suddenly on the offensive. He barks out a harsh laugh and glares at Castiel, his whole frame trembling with barely suppressed emotion.  
“What the hell? That’s fucking ridiculous! Where are you going to go?” Dean yells incredulously, anger, hurt, and disbelief making his scent grow increasingly more potent with his escalating emotions. “You have nowhere!” His eyes burn into Castiel’s and Castiel glares back in vexation, crossing his arms over his chest. He is not going to stand here and take anymore of this. Dean is never going to make him feel bad for making his own choices and acting without the alpha’s approval ever again. Especially considering Dean is the one who drove them to where they are now and made it necessary for Castiel to do this in the first place.  
“I’m going back to Balthazar. This -- us -- was a mistake.”

“What, and he wasn’t?” Dean snarls sardonically. “You think he’s gonna welcome you back with open arms now that you’ve presented and it’ll all be some perfect fairytale where he’s not an objectifying, deceitful sexist bastard?” Castiel gives him a look and says nothing. He grabs his suitcase and walks out of the room, heading to the front door, and doesn’t look back. There’s a low buzzing in his ears and with every step, Castiel feels his emotions clawing their way back to the surface, demanding to be felt. Everything feels disjointed, and it’s suddenly hard to breathe, like there’s an iron band tightening around his chest. His thoughts are too loud so he disconnects himself from them, and from all the emotions threatening to drown him as he walks away from Dean, away from his home. He disconnects himself from the pain, the heartbreak, the loss, and everything else threatening to swallow him up whole. It’s the most agonizing thing he’s ever done, but he closes himself off to any and all of his feelings for the alpha. With all of his emotions blocked out and no longer an immediate threat to his resolve, he takes a deep breath and focuses on his plan. The taxi is idling at the curb and Castiel gets inside, shoving his suitcase over next to him on the seat before giving the driver instructions to Balthazar’s apartment. He stares out the window as the city scape blurs by, not really seeing what he’s looking at. With his confusing, dangerous emotions out of the way, Castiel can see logically that leaving is the right decision. 

This was all a mistake and he needs to get away from it, get away from _Dean_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEFORE anyone tries to slit my throat for having Cas go back to Balthazar, just give me a chance and trust me, okay? :') Things aren't going to go like you think they will. There is a very happy ending in store -- you just gotta trust me and keep an open mind :)
> 
> Anyways, thank you so much for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting, I love you all so much <3 Your support means the world to me, and it's gone so far in keeping me inspired and motivated, I can't thank you enough <3 
> 
> Also, it looks like there will be 29 chapters until the story is completed, plus a few more (including an m-preg epilogue and time stamps) after that, which I will add as I write them (off posting schedule). As some of you have asked me to do, I will attach warnings for the epilogue/time stamp chapters involving m-preg. Up through chapter 29, there is no m-preg. More info about time stamps and the epilogue will be posted at the end of chapter 29. If you have any questions, feel free to let me know! :)


	22. A Long Way to Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't really beta'd by anyone but myself, I apologize for any mistakes!

Two days later, Dean comes to sprawled face-down on the living room floor. 

Dean blinks his eyes open into slits and rolls onto his back, waiting for his vision to focus and for the room to stop spinning like the world has tilted the wrong way on its axis. Sunlight pours in through the windows and shines into his eyes, sending jagged shards of bright pain twisting into his brain. His head is pounding with what feels like thousands of pounds of pressure, and he’s not positive his skull isn’t going to split wide open. He quickly squeezes his eyes shut to block out the light and groans, the sound rough and scraping up his bone dry throat. His mouth tastes like a gas station bathroom, the flavor of stale whiskey on the back of his tongue and souring his breath. The floor feels like it’s tipping sideways beneath him and the walls won’t hold steady, listing from side to side like he’s on a boat being tossed about in the ocean during a storm. An overwhelming wave of nausea makes his stomach pitch and he clenches his teeth, willing whatever’s left in his stomach to stay put. 

Dean isn’t sure for how long he lays there, head pounding erratically in time with his heartbeat like someone has taken a jackhammer to the inside of his skull. He rides out the most imminent curl of nausea, until, for the most part, nothing is listing and careening at unnatural, stomach-flipping angles. This feeling is bitterly, horribly familiar, and it leaves a hollowness in his gut that sends him even further in the downward spiral he’s been plummeting in for days now. He’s been here before, many times, and waking up like this is a dose of sickening gravity that’s far worse than the pain and nausea. It nearly saps him of his will to move ever again, to do anything but just lay right here and let the weight of everything he feels looming on the edge of his consciousness, waiting to be acknowledged, consume him. Unfortunately that’s not a choice, so as soon as he feels like he’s more or less physically stable enough to do so, Dean rolls to his hands and knees, then slowly, arduously climbs to his feet. It’s enough to make the pounding pain in his skull flare up even worse, and his vision tunnels as the blood rushes out of his head, nearly making him black out. It’s by sheer force of will that he manages to keep upright, his legs feeling too weak and unsteady for him to keep his balance or support the weight of his frame.

Consciousness hurts like a bitch, and Dean sure as fuck isn’t going to do anything to prolong it. The damning, crushing presence of everything he’d drank to smother is right there at the forefront of his mind, a storm waiting to bear down on him at any second. He definitely does not want to be conscious long enough for the full weight of it to hit him, which is why he’s kept himself plastered for the past two days, the only way he knows how to hold the shitstorm off. There’s a pretty much empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, lying on its side in a wide puddle of the spilt liquid, and he stoops to grab it, insides lurching nauseatingly at the motion. His fumbling fingers close around it and he straightens back up, nearly collapsing sideways into the coffee table from the jerky movement as he lifts the bottle to his lips. He closes his eyes and tips back the rest, hardly noticing the liquid burn down his throat. Taking a few stagger steps forward, Dean stumbles into the kitchen, vision blurry, the haze in his brain already thickening. His hip slams into the island counter and he grits his teeth at the pain as he reaches for an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel’s, still in the plastic bag from when he’d bought it and the now empty one two days ago.

An hour, maybe less, after Castiel left him, to be exact.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut. Where the fuck had that thought come from? With renewed determination, he gets his fumbling fingers to twist off the cap. The hard look in Cas’ eyes -- the last one he gave Dean before he left -- surfaces in Dean’s mind and he gnashes his teeth. He can’t get the bottle to his lips fast enough. He wishes the burn of whiskey slipping down his throat was strong enough to incinerate the memory of how Cas had looked at him right before he walked away, which is ingrained into the very tissues of his brain. 

Dean drinks. He drinks until he no longer can fight off the nausea, stumbling as quickly as he can over to the trash can under the sink. His coordination is fucked to hell and he trips over something and falls to his knees on the kitchen floor, just barely managing to pick himself back up before he’s unable to fight the whiskey’s effects anymore. He vomits until his stomach is completely empty of its contents, and then he vomits some more. His eyes stream tears and his teeth ache, but everything else is a senseless, incoherent blur of numbness and detachment as his body revolts against him. His legs give out, sending him collapsing onto the kitchen floor with a thud that he hardly feels at all. The vague pain of the impact isn’t enough to keep him conscious and he’s out like a light, darkness swallowing him up whole.

***

The next few days go by in a surreal blur. Castiel feels disconnected from himself, going through the motions without feeling like he’s actually participating in them. It’s as if he’s watching himself eat breakfast or prepare lesson plans from outside of his body -- he feels detatched from himself and what’s going on around him. Everything is dull and meaningless; his lectures are devoid of passion or interest, and he has nothing to say to Balthazar or his friends or coworkers despite their attempts to make conversation. Meg, Samandriel, and Hannah have all been overly kind and gentle with him when they sit together at lunch, but he doesn’t miss the wariness or concern in their eyes, or the hushed whispers in his wake when he leaves the table at the end of lhe break. He feels distanced from them in a way that only increases his consciousness of how empty he is inside. Their easygoing and upbeat conversation feels foreign to him, and he can’t even imagine how it had felt to be a part of it with his current emotional state being worlds away. Something about his demeanor must be stopping them from asking what they’re all quite obviously wondering: _what’s wrong?_. He’s glad that they don’t ask, that they don’t press. He doesn’t know what he would do if they did.

Balthazar is the same way around him. He’s been very hospitable and welcoming, offering Castiel the bed (to which Castiel declined, opting instead to take the pull-out bed in the couch) and doing whatever he can to make him feel at home. The first night Castiel spent back in the apartment, Balthazar had gently asked if he wanted to talk about what happened, surprising him with his genuine concern. Castiel had turned him down, of course; there were no words for how he felt, and the very last thing he wanted to do was give the emotions he’d buried in the back of his head any kind of opening. Reliving what happened, thinking of Dean and allowing himself to feel everything he’s diligently been suppressing would _wreck_ him, which is why he is avoiding it at all costs. Castiel prefers to drown himself in detachment and numbness, because it makes him feel as safe as he can be from the feelings and memories and all of the pain that comes with them. He isn’t ready to talk about it and he doubts he ever will be. Everything related to or involving Dean -- whether it be feelings, memories, or the man himself -- needs to be miles away from him. This is supposed to be his escape, his fresh start. Balthazar had seemed to understand that after Castiel had rejected his offer to discuss that night. He also seemed to understand Castiel’s tacit request for space, and the alpha had once again surprised him and respected his wishes. He hadn’t pushed Castiel to say or do anything at all, only made small talk with him and ensured he had everything he needed to get settled back in. 

Castiel wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting when he moved back in -- maybe for Balthazar to immediately start pressing for some kind of return to their original relationship -- but it definitely wasn’t this. He didn’t anticipate Balthazar being so kind and sincerely concerned, or for the alpha to give him the space he needed. He does appreciate it, though, and he tells Balthazar as much. It’s one of the few things he says to him without prompting. They don’t see each other that often, considering Castiel works in the mornings and afternoons while Balthazar usually works in the evenings, so their interactions are limited. As nice and understanding as the alpha has been, Castiel is grateful for the alone time. 

He realizes his thoughts are straying away from his work, and that is a very dangerous path he needs to stop himself from going down immediately. If he gets too lost in his thoughts they inevitably turn to Dean, and he’s been avoiding any thought concerning the alpha at all costs, aware that it will only end up tearing down the wall Castiel has built between himself and his feelings. He can’t think about that, can’t further the cracks already starting to manifest in that painstakingly constructed wall. So he carefully voids his mind of anything but his current task, which is finding a reading to go along with the lecture he’s prepared for tomorrow on modern day Buddhism. He’s sitting cross-legged on the pull-out bed, the light from his laptop screen illuminating his face in the otherwise dark living room. Balthazar had left for the office before Castiel had returned home from work, leaving only a sticky note reminding him there’s a plate of leftovers in the fridge for him to eat when he’s hungry. Belatedly, he realizes he hasn’t eaten dinner yet and it’s nearly 10:30 PM. The idea of dinner has only just now crossed his mind; he isn’t hungry, and he hasn’t been hungry all day. He’d forced himself to eat a small bowl of oatmeal for breakfast, and he’d managed to choke down a few bites of his sandwich at lunch, but the idea of eating anything more makes his stomach churn uncomfortably. 

Castiel sighs, squinting at his laptop as he tries to resume reading the text on the screen, but the contrast of the computer light with the darkness of the room makes his eyes burn and his head ache. The small print blurs in and out of focus and the pounding in his skull seems to intensify the harder he tries to make the words hold steady. Something almost like nausea curls in his stomach, feeding off the pain in his head and the general ‘off’ sensation of his whole body. Despite his body’s protests, Castiel tries even harder to focus, eager to finish up his prep work so he can just go to bed and give into the overwhelming and unwarranted fatigue. Going to sleep sounds absolutely heavenly, and all he needs to do is find a reading to accompany his lecture for tomorrow. Hadn’t he taken a screenshot of a list of websites Anna had recommended he use for finding readings on Buddhism? It should still be in the photos on his phone, and if he can just get the links, finding a reading should take no time at all, and he can burrow under the blankets and bury his face in his pillow, where there won’t be any light or small text to hurt his eyes and head. He unlocks his phone and clicks on the colorful Photos icon, then starts swiping through them in search of the one with the links. It doesn’t take him long to find it; he doesn’t have very many photos.

It takes only about fifteen minutes to find a good reading that expands on modern day Buddhist practices, and he hurries to email the article to his school email, where he can print it out and make copies before class tomorrow. With that done, he closes his laptop and sets it aside, blinking in the sudden darkness as he waits for his eyes to adjust and the pounding in his head to ease enough for him to worm his way underneath the sheets on his makeshift bed. The action causes his phone to tumble off the side of the bed and clatter on the hardwood floor, and Castiel winces and reaches down to fumble for it. As much as he wants to be done with the obtrusive, painful light of screens for the rest of the night so his eyes can rest and he can escape the dizzying, sharp pain in his head, he needs to set an alarm on his phone for the morning. Bracing himself for the pain about to spike through his eyes and into his skull, Castiel unlocks his phone. After the initial burst of too-bright pain surging into his brain, his eyes adjust and focus on the image displayed on the screen, and his heart nearly stops in his chest. It’s him and Dean. 

They’re sitting side by side on Dean’s couch, watching _Home Alone_ play on the TV, bundled up in blankets. Dean has one arm stretched out behind Castiel on the back of the couch and he’s looking down at him with this incredibly fond look on his face, like Castiel is far more interesting than the movie. Castiel swallows thickly, his heart pounding so hard all he can hear is the rush of blood in his ears. He feels like his guts have been scooped out as he blinks at the image, his brain short circuiting. All the breath seems to rush out of him and the walls separating himself from all things Dean fissure further, his emotions unbelievably strong as they rear up and ram the already damaged blockade, about to send it crumbling to pieces. Something buzzes at the back of his mind in recognition, as if insistent that Castiel pay attention to it, that he tear down the wall separating him from what he’s holding onto of Dean. 

_No._

Castiel suddenly and forcefully shoves the emotions back by honing in on all the anger and hurt he’d been keeping simmering low in his gut, reinforcing the wall with iron and smothering down that niggling voice in the back of his head. He stares down at the phone in his hand, watching as the screen goes dark and the image of him and Dean disappears, and he’s abruptly overcome with the desire to destroy the damned thing. Dean gave him this phone, and it still holds his contact information, and all of their text messages, and every picture Sam had taken of them during the holidays. A dark, bitter part of him wants to smash it to pieces and destroy the evidence of their time together, of his connection with Dean. He can throw it in the trash and buy a new one, erase any traces of Dean from his life. A moment passes and Castiel is still frozen staring down at the device he’s clutching too-tight in his hands, fingers curled almost painfully around it. Just as suddenly as it had come on, his destructive rage crests and peters out. He realizes his reaction is immature and impulsive and he sighs deeply, all the fire quickly draining out of him. This isn’t him.

He could never bring himself to throw Dean’s gift away, to get rid of all the memories inside and tied to it. He wishes he could, in a more sensible and well thought-out fashion, but he can’t. He doesn’t have it in him, just like he doesn’t have it in him to hate Dean for what he did. His grip on the phone loosens and he turns it over in his hands, looking at it without really seeing it. There’s a low buzzing in his ears and his throat feels constricted when he tries to swallow. As if moving of their own volition, his fingers tap in the passcode to unlock his phone and once again, the image of him and Dean fills the screen. With his chest feeling too tight and his heartbeat thrumming wildly behind his ribs, Castiel swipes his finger to the right, dragging up the next picture. This one is of Dean and Castiel sitting together at the kitchen table on Christmas morning, both of them smiling and laughing at each other as they eat the huge breakfast Dean had made. There’s a heavy feeling in Castiel’s gut, like stones dropping into the pit of his stomach, and his face feels too hot. As if on automatic, he swipes to the next picture, one where he, Dean, and Sam have all squeezed together to get in the frame, the three of them smiling up at the camera with the mess of torn wrapping paper underneath the Christmas tree in the background.

Castiel closes his eyes, focusing on inhaling and exhaling evenly through his nose. His insides clench at the sudden onslaught of fierce memories, all of which are coming back to him in a sort of domino effect. They come pouring in to fill his mind with things he’d done everything he could to keep buried deep inside, things he’d fought tooth and nail to repress. His obsessively maintained wall is useless to stop them as they start to flood through the cracks, now that his guard is down and he’s all but welcoming them back. He doesn’t need his phone with the pictures to spur the memories on anymore, in fact, he can’t even see the images now, his vision blurry from the tears welling up over his waterline. Feeling too weak and overwhelmed to do anything else, Castiel shudders and rolls onto his stomach on the bed, dropping his phone on the ground. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, feeling the tears spill over and run down his cheeks. The memories are hitting him full force now, ones from Christmas, where he and Dean had shared that makeshift nest, and ones of him, Sam, and Dean decorating the tree. That only leads to ones that make the cavern in his chest ache worse, his heart contracting painfully in his chest. They’re ones that are more recent, of Dean dropping him off at work, at them talking together over dinner at the Roadhouse, of enjoying each other’s company in the early mornings before work, Dean tying his tie and Castiel giving him a good morning kiss as he hands him a cup of coffee. A silent sob tears through Castiel and he mashes his face into the pillows, his entire being _aching_ with longing and loss. 

Castiel lays there and just _remembers_ , surrendering to his emotions and memories just for the night. He lets them ravage him, lets them shake him to his core while he’s curled in on himself and crying quietly alone in the darkness of the room. He isn’t strong enough. He couldn’t fight this forever. It was only a matter of time before his emotions found an opening and seized it, and now here he is, at the mercy of the intensity of feeling everything he’d suppressed, just as fresh and raw and _agonizing_ as it was days ago. Just for tonight, he lets himself feel and remember. Tomorrow, when he wakes up, the wall will be back in place, and it will be firmer, stronger, and more resilient than before. 

Tomorrow, he’ll be numb and empty once again, unfeeling and miles away from anything that could hurt him. 

Tomorrow, he will not cry for his True Mate and for everything he has lost with him.

Tomorrow, he tells himself as the exhaustion from the day and the force of his weeping urges him towards unconsciousness.

Dean’s beautiful, grinning face is still clear in his mind and he _hurts_.

Castiel tells himself tomorrow, but it is an empty promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next are mostly angst, but if you can get through them, there is some real plot development in store and things are going to take off! Stick through the angst with me, it'll be worth it, I promise! <3 Thank you so much, I love you all to pieces and adore your kudos and comments!
> 
> Also, September 22nd there will be an update to mark the one year anniversary of this fic, so stay tuned! <3


	23. Under the Weather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd, sorry!

It’s just like life, once you think you’ve already hit rock bottom and couldn’t possibly fall any further, to get even worse. It’s almost comical, just how wrong Dean had been when he thought he’d reached his all time low waking up hungover on the kitchen floor covered in his own vomit. 

Except Dean isn’t laughing. There’s nothing funny about how with each day that passes, both his physical and emotional states get shittier and shittier. Over the past few days he’s developed some sort of a fever; he feels like a coal stove, baking from the inside out, unable to escape the hellish heat no matter how many cold showers he takes. Not only that, but Dean can’t sleep beyond a few hours a night, and even then he’s at best in some sort of inbetween-state of consciousness. It’s restless and fitful, where he’s constantly turning over and kicking the blankets off because he’s too fucking hot. On top of that, his throat is always sore and bone dry no matter how much water he drinks, and he can’t hold much in his stomach without puking his guts up. He can’t remember ever being this sick before, hasn’t ever felt so exhausted by doing even small things like showering or getting dressed. When he’s at the garage he struggles to keep his hands from their near-constant shaking so that he can still work on the finer tunings of the cars. As if that wasn’t bad enough, it’s hard for him to focus on what he’s doing because of the ever-present headaches and dizziness. But he keeps powering through whatever this is that’s making it so difficult just to get through the work day and do his job, because the alternative is even worse. If he can’t suck it up and push past all of this crap to do his job, then he’ll have to take a few sick days until whatever the entire fuck this is goes away. He absolutely can’t have that, because if he does take work off, he’ll have all that time to sit and think about _Cas_. 

If he has nothing to occupy his time, then he’ll be forced to deal with his fucked up emotional state, and that will no doubt blow everything to hell. Focusing on fixing cars and coping with being sick is enough of a distraction that it stalls the emotional breakdown he knows he has coming. If the simmering longing, depression, and self hatred weighing on him every minute of every day isn’t enough of a sign that everything is going to come crashing down on him sooner or later, then he’ll be damned. He’s just waiting for it to happen, masochistically soaking in his misery and waiting for the inevitable to tear him apart like he deserves.

Ever since Cas left, Dean’s had all of this pent-up emotion and no idea how to deal with it. So he does the only thing he knows how to do when faced with a clusterfuck of feelings: he drinks and channels all of them into anger, the one emotion he can handle. Lately he’s been keeping himself drunk whenever he’s not working so as to numb and distract himself from anything having to do with Cas. He’s currently at it right now, finishing off his second bottle of Jack Daniel’s from his trip to the drugstore the day Cas left. This time, he thankfully passes out in his bed rather than on the unforgivingly hard kitchen floor. Well, maybe not quite thankfully, considering he throws up what little is in his stomach all over his bed the next morning. He wakes up to find he hadn’t set his alarm yesterday and it’s already past noon. Fuck. Bobby is going to kick his ass into next week. There couldn’t be a better start to his day than rushing panickedly to change the vomit-covered sheets, hungover and with his fever reaching new levels of shitty. He forgoes breakfast, knowing there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell he could stomach anything, and gets to work stuffing the soiled sheets into the wash machine. Getting the load of laundry going seems to sap him of all his strength and energy for the day while simultaneously making him even later for work, but hell if he’s just gonna leave the nasty sheets on his memory foam-top mattress. Dean hurries to change into his jumpsuit and head off to the garage, all the while feeling like he’s going to throw up on Baby’s nice leather seats and pass out behind the wheel at any moment because of how sick he feels. 

As soon as he gets in the shop, Bobby, owner of the shop and the man who’s always been more of a father to Sam and Dean than John ever was, stops him from heading over to start his work on the Camaro at the top of his list for today. “Yeah?” Dean asks, and winces. His voice is rough scraping up his raw throat, and it both hurts to speak and to listen to. Bobby gives him a concerned frown -- a rarity coming from him -- and that only makes Dean feel worse.   
“Whatta’ya doing here, boy? You’re sick as a dog,” Bobby starts, and Dean opens his mouth to protest, but Bobby isn’t finished. “Get your ass back inside that car of yours and go home.”   
“Seriously, Bobby, I can work just fine. We’ve got a ton of stuff to do and I’m not just gonna leave you guys high and dry,” Dean tries to reason, but then his body chooses that exact moment to fuck him over, a vicious coughing fit erupting from his lungs. Bobby just waits patiently for him to stop, his eyes saying everything. When he can finally breathe again, Dean rasps, “I just need some water, I swear, I’m fine.” Bobby rolls his eyes and takes the clipboard out of Dean’s hands.   
“What you _need_ is to be resting, ya idjit,” he grumps. “So go on home, we got it covered here.” Bobby leaves no room for argument and honestly, Dean knows that once Bobby makes a decision, he’s immovable. With an exaggerated sigh, Dean hands over the keys he’d grabbed to the Camaro and Bobby accepts them with a nod.  
“I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.” He hopes the defeat in his voice is covered up by the scratchy quality of the words. Bobby shakes his head.  
“No you won’t. You’re taking some time off until you’re feelin’ back to normal. I’ll stop by and bring some soup tomorrow -- I have the day off, and you know how Jody gets when one of you boys is sick.” Bobby says, and that makes Dean smile, remembering all of the times Bobby’s wife sheriff Jody Mills would make him and Sam copious amounts of her famous chicken noodle soup whenever they were got a cold or had the flu.   
“Thanks, Bobby,” Dean relents, and that earns him a smile. He calls a goodbye to Charlie and Benny before he goes and they both tell him to get well soon, Benny tacking on a ‘brother’ at the end and Charlie threatening him about making sure he drinks enough water. With a new weight on his shoulders, Dean makes his way back to Baby and starts on his way home. 

A spur of the moment decision has Dean taking a different exit off the freeway and pulling into the parking lot of some crappy dive bar. His subconscious mind must have made the decision to avoid going home and facing the reality of his fucked up emotional state when he’d seen the sign on the side of the highway. He knows he’s too sick to be out, let alone getting drunk, but all he can think is _fuck it_. Getting hammered comes easy and he’s falling back into his old ways like he never left them. A bunch of bikers sitting at a table near by are looking at him the wrong way, like he’s amusing or something. What the hell could be so damn funny? He’s having a few drinks, minding his own damn business, and now they’re pissing him off. One of them leans over and says something to his friend, both of their eyes on Dean, and he catches the word ‘scent’. Can they smell his feelings on him? Is that what they’re mocking him about? Dean is not in the fucking mood for this shit, especially not today. He gets up off his bar stool, stumbling the first couple of steps, and approaches their table with what he hopes is a threatening glare, though he can’t really feel his face to be sure it’s in place. “The fuck are you looking at, pal?” Dean growls, the amused scent of the four alphas grating on his nerves.   
“You got a problem?” One of them asks, some dumbass with a grimy, thick mustache. Dean can hear the arrogance in his voice and it fuels his desire to put all four of these egotistical alphas in a hospital.  
“Seems like you’re the one who’s got a problem. You stare at all other alphas and giggle and gossip like a bunch of third grade girls looking at their crush, or am I just a lucky guy?” Dean mocks with aggressive sarcasm, hands balled into fists and aching to punch someone. Even his alcohol-addled brain can register how all of the alphas’ scents darken with hostility and rage. It sparks his own aggression, and rational thought and inhibitions lost, he gives himself over to his instincts and feeds the flames.

“You listen to me, you little bitch,” the mustached-alpha growls, and Dean lifts an eyebrow tauntingly.   
“What, did you suddenly grow a pair?” They’re both .02 seconds away from lunging at each other’s throats, but before either of them can make a move, Dean suddenly feels a hand on his shoulder from behind him. He whirls around, ready to clock whatever knothead wants to join in on the fun, but pauses when he comes face to face with the bartender.   
“I think it’s time for you to leave,” the bartender says -- a beta, based on his inoffensive, mild scent and demeanor. He tightens his restraining hand on Dean’s shoulder to emphasize his point. Dean’s instincts tell him to throw the man’s arm off and then let the other four alphas have it, seeing as they’re all clearly getting ready for a fight. They’ve risen out of their seats, arms crossed over their chests, and are radiating hostility. As if anticipating Dean’ll try to shove him off and finish what he started, the bartender tightens his grip even further. Trembling with rage and struggling to walk completely straight, Dean allows the bartender to push him towards the door. Before he knows it, he’s standing outside of the bar and calling a cab as per the beta’s instructions, just barely restraining himself from heading back in there and beating the shit out of those guys like every fiber of his being is urging him to do. His anger only builds as he waits for the cab to arrive, because he’s too drunk to drive and that manages to piss him off even further. By the time he gets home, he’s nearly vibrating with pent up emotion, but it’s misdirected; Dean is getting angry with the wrong people.

Dean’s angry at those knotheads from the bar, sure, but his real problem is with _Balthazar_. He’s pissed at the alpha for taking Cas away from him. He’s angry that Cas left him for the smarmy, sexist douchebag, he’s angry that somehow Balthazar seemed like he’d be better for Cas than Dean would. His fury only grows when he imagines Cas with Balthazar, or Cas with anyone else but him at all. He knows logically he has no right to call Cas his, not anymore, but fire pumps through his veins at the thought of Cas being with someone like Balthazar and every fiber of his being burns with _that’s_ my _omega_. It both infuriates and sickens Dean, thinking of how Cas is with someone right now who doesn’t treasure him like Dean does, who doesn’t care about him more than anything and adore him like Dean does. Balthazar will never love Cas like Dean loves him or treat him the way he deserves to be treated. Dean thinks of his omega with Balthazar and he’s just so unbelievably fucking _angry_. 

He can’t hold it in anymore. Dean can’t take this any longer, there’s too much shit roiling inside his head, he needs an outlet and that is to _act_. Something inside him snaps. He draws his leg back and slams his heel into the nearest kitchen chair, sending it flying. The loud crash it makes sends the heat in his blood flaring hotter. His heartbeat pounds in his ears and he hears a strange ringing in his head as he picks up an empty beer bottle and hurls it against the wall. It shatters, broken glass clattering to the floor, but it’s still not enough. He punches the picture frame hanging on the wall above the bookshelf, hardly feeling the sharp pain in his knuckles when the skin splits and his blood smears over the cracked glass, and then he rips it off the wall. Dean shoves the lamp off the end table and then boots it across the room, seeing it collide with the wall with red veiling his vision. His pulse thunders in his ears and all he can feel is the way his whole body burns and aches with violent energy, with the need to expel every emotion that’s been building up inside him. He craves destruction, wants to destroy just like how his emotions are destroying him from the inside out. This still isn’t enough, there’s still too much fire pumping through his veins, burning him up and he wants it _out_. 

Dean grabs the edge of the coffee table and flips it, the deafening sound of glass shattering pulsing through his bones. He stands there, staring down at the sea of broken glass with his chest heaving and ears ringing. His heartbeat races, but begins to gradually slow down with each labored inhale and exhale. The sudden silence engulfing him threads its way into his very core and he’s still frozen staring down at the mess, unmoving and hollow. The livid anger and rage that had been fueling him has burned out, leaving him an empty husk. He’s shaking so hard he feels like his legs are going to give out so he slowly sinks down into a crouch beside the busted table. Dean feels nothing. His blurry vision focuses and he can make out his reflection on a piece of the shattered glass. He stares hard at the bloodshot eyes of his reflection and he doesn’t feel nothing anymore. The anger is back, but it has changed. It isn’t burning up everything in its path, no; it’s smoldering quietly with lethal patience and a certain brand of profundity, stripped down to what it has always been. With a sickening feeling that wraps around his insides, Dean understands. There’s a sour taste on the back of his teeth and he feels like he is going to vomit. He bows his head and tries to breathe.

The quiet voice in the back of his head, the only thing left after he burned through everything else in there tells him he’s still angry with the wrong person. 

Dean holds his reflection’s gaze and swallows hard.

He fucking misses Castiel. He _loves_ Castiel and he fucking hates himself for losing him. Cas is his whole damn world and now he’s _gone_. Dean can’t continue ignoring the enormous gaping hole left in him from where Cas use to be and he can’t use anger as some shitty excuse for a band-aid over it. How did he even get this far, even with the help of alcohol, without losing it?

It doesn’t matter. He’s losing it now.

His eyes burn with tears and his throat feels constricted. He fucking misses Cas so fucking much, oh God, _Cas_. Cas was and is everything to him and now he’s gone and Dean can’t hold himself together anymore. The absolute _pain_ of it all wracks through the alpha and he sucks in a sharp breath to hold captive in his lungs as silent tears well over his water line and drip down his face.

And it’s just like that, crouching on the floor of the living room he wrecked, that Dean completely loses himself to all of the emotions he’d covered up with anger, helpless to do anything but drown in the grief of losing the man he loves.

***

Castiel has been unable to get out of bed for the whole day now. It’s his third day off from work and today he feels remarkably more ill than he had for the past two. Whatever sickness this is just keeps getting worse, leaving him feeling so awful that he’s been in bed drifting in and out of sleep for the entire day. He knows he needs to go to the doctor but he can’t bring himself to get there without a car while in as terrible a condition as he is. Balthazar is on a short business trip in Pennsylvania and had told him to call if he got any worse, but Castiel hadn’t, of course. What is Balthazar going to do to help him when he’s in a whole different state and is busy with meetings? Castiel can take care of himself. He’ll figure out a way to get to the doctor tomorrow. It’s much easier not to dwell on how he has no one to drive him and how it’s highly improbably he’ll be able to walk to the bus stop and take a bus with the state he’s in. Castiel shivers hard and pulls the blankets he has cocooned himself in closer to his body in a futile attempt to get warmer. Lately he’s been extremely cold at all times, never seeming to be able to get warm no matter how high he turns the heat up or how many layers he wears. It’s very strange and not even WebMD can make sense of that symptom, especially in combination with his others.

His nausea has only gotten worse, to the point where he makes himself a bowl of oatmeal and has to force himself to eat as much of it as he can and that’s it for the day. The attempts at eating always ultimately backfire and have him using whatever scraps of his strength remain to get to the nearest trashcan to throw up. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t really eaten or maybe it’s just a symptom in of itself, but Castiel has had very little energy lately. Getting out of bed exhausts him and he feels too weak to stay standing for long, the constant dizziness he feels making it that much more difficult. Water and medicine hardly make any difference at all, and that’s all he knows of that can help him, aside from actually going in to see a physician. He was due for a heat a couple days ago but he never got it, which is an even more worrying indication of his failing health. Missing a heat is extremely rare, and Castiel’s brain won’t focus enough to summon up the few circumstances where he’s heard of it happening. He feels so horrible right now -- and has felt this way all day -- that he just wants to fall asleep, no matter how fitful it will be. But he can’t even do that right now -- he’s so freezing cold that his shivering and chattering teeth are making drifting off impossible. He could try and crank the thermostat up, but that requires leaving the warmth of the pull-out bed and he can’t bring himself to do that. Maybe another layer will help ward off the chills?

Castiel leans over the side of the bed with one hand fisted in the blankets to keep them wrapped around him and reaches the other into his duffle bag sitting open on the floor. He’s been keeping it right here beside the bed so that he can grab things like another pair of socks or an extra hoodie to put on without having to get up. He roots around inside, feeling for the soft material of a sweater and prays that there’s one at the bottom. Most of his sweaters are in the pile of dirty laundry he’s been too sick to get to, but there’s got to be one left in his duffle, or at least he hopes there is. His searching fingers finally drag over the familiar material of his favorite sweater at the very bottom and he eagerly grabs hold of it and rolls back into place on the bed. He pulls it on over his head and eases his arms through the sleeves, then burrows deeper under the blankets and curls in on himself in hopes that it’ll help him get warmer faster. It’s on his next inhale, nose tucked against the sweater sleeve, that he gets an unexpected yet familiar lungful of the most ambrosial scent to ever exist. 

It’s a lungful of _Dean_.

The gears in Castiel’s brain grind to a halt and he’s struck with a sudden flood of warmth. Something at his core _melts._ That scent is home, it’s comfort and happiness and family and _love_ , and Castiel is overwhelmed by the effect it has on him, making him feel all of those things nearly as strongly as he had when he was wrapped inside Dean’s arms. Though the sunshine-pine fragrance is nowhere near as potent as it had been whenever Dean was around, even these traces are enough to floor him. Every muscle in his body untenses and his eyes flutter shut as he inhales another deep breath of the scent. His whole being hums with recognition and familiarity; the safety, contentment, and euphoria the scent inspires in him is a visceral response. His body and soul recognize the scent and to whom it belongs and are rejoicing so quickly that his mind must scramble to catch up. His brain breaks him out of the trance with a grave reminder of the reality of the situation, and the biological and metaphysical bliss is suddenly crushed with bitter longing and loss. Coldness returns to fill the cavity in Castiel’s chest and the warmth of everything Dean’s scent inspired in him rapidly begins to fade now that he’s remembered the harsh actuality of it all. The fulfillment and elation of _mine_ and _True Mate_ crumples under the iron-heavy weight of sorrow and anguish.

Castiel _aches_. 

All of that wonderful heat brought on by Dean’s scent is being driven from him and it’s the worst feeling, having all of that love and joy only for it be smothered by agonizing reality. He has to have it back and preserve it, if only for a little while. It doesn’t matter that it isn’t what he truly aches for, that he wants the man and not just his scent, and it doesn’t matter that he can’t have or keep either. He just needs _something_ , something that will make him feel warm for just a little longer, that will comfort him and make him feel safe and cared for for the first time since he left Dean. So he pretends. He clears all of his thoughts out of his head and focuses back in on the alpha’s scent, closing his eyes and snuggling deeper underneath the blankets. He buries his nose in his sweater sleeve and breathes in his True Mate’s scent, letting it soothe away the coldness with that lovely golden warmth. Castiel pretends and forgets, just for this moment, until _familyhomelovemate_ is all he feels. He knows it’s only going to tear him apart worse in the morning, but right now, he just needs it so badly. Needs _Dean_ so badly. 

This is as much as he can have, so he takes another breath of Dean’s scent and pretends that it is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy _Headlights and Halos_ one year anniversary!!  <3 A year ago I posted the first chapter of this fic and thanks to all of you lovely people, look how far it's come! <3
> 
> To celebrate, here is an early angsty chapter :') 
> 
> I'll save the real sappiness for the end of the fic, but I just want to say thank you so, so much for all of your continued support for a whole year now. Your kudos, comments, bookmarks, just everything has meant the world to me and I am eternally grateful for how supportive and wonderful you've all been. I love you guys so much <3 <3
> 
> I know you all probably want to kill me after how angsty this chapter was, but I would love to talk to you and get to know you more and I promise that I don't bite! :) Come visit me on tumblr (sunshine-winchesters) and say hi! If you've got any questions for me about this fic or anything at all, feel free to drop by and ask away! :)
> 
> http://sunshine-winchesters.tumblr.com/
> 
>  
> 
> Once again, thank you for everything <3


	24. Wake Up Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd, but it has been compulsively read over by the author :')
> 
> Also, there's a bunch of medical bullshit in this chapter that I make no claims about the accuracy of because, once again, I am not a doctor and my medical knowledge is limited.

Dean turns the air conditioner up to full blast as he gets on the freeway heading for the airport. The sky is a dark, cloudy gray and a cold, drizzly rain picks up just enough that the windshield wipers need to be on, but Dean is hot as a furnace. His fever is still miraculously continuing to get worse, increasingly hellish levels of dry heat leaving him wishing for a shit ton of snow to bury himself in. It’s a pain in his ass, as is the dizzy shakiness and nausea. Oh, and there’s that constant headache he has that makes his head feel like it’s being smashed to bits on top of everything. Right now, the headache is so distracting with the sharp pressure-pain that Dean’s mildly concerned he’s going to crash Baby in his attempt to navigate the traffic-clogged highway The dizziness and headache is probably from the combination of being vertical and trying to focus on staying within the lines on the rain-darkened road, which is way harder than it should be, by the way. Dean sighs heavily, blinking rapidly in a vain attempt at sharpening his annoyingly blurred vision. He really shouldn’t be driving, but he’s not gonna make Sam pay fifty bucks or whatever to take a taxi from the airport to his house. The kid flew all the way over from California to spend spring break with him; the least he can do is pick him up from the airport. Plus, Dean can’t wait to see his baby brother. He’s missed him a fuckton and there’s no one else who could make Dean feel even just a tiny bit better.

Dean pulls into a parking space, shoves his hands into his hoodie pocket, and heads toward the airport’s main entrance. The icy rain spits into his face but it does next to nothing to cool down his sweltering skin. The airport is too warm and too brightly lit, upping the head-splitting factor of Dean’s headache by a few notches, and the abundance of too many alpha and omega scents in one place doesn’t help, but he forgets about all of it as soon as he sees Sam. It’s effortless for him to pick Sam’s stupid floppy hair and awkward gangly form out of the crowd, and that might be mostly in part because Sam’s taller than mostly everyone in the packed terminal. “Sammy!” Dean yells over the clamor of people trying to find their families, making his way through the disorganized throng over to his brother. Sam’s face lights up as soon as he sees him and it loosens something in Dean’s chest. 

As soon as he’s in arm’s reach of his sasquatch of a brother, he’s being pulled into a bone-crushing bear hug that is warm and familiar and as close to comforting as he’s come since...yeah, he’s not going to think about that right now. Sam’s scent is home and family and it’s like one of the many weights on his shoulders has evaporated just getting a breath of it. Fuck, he’s missed Sam so much. “Nice to see you too, jerk,” Sam laughs in his ear, tightening his arms around Dean’s ribs. In his current state, Dean is unable to return the tight hug like he normally would, instead erupting into a coughing fit as the air is squeezed from his lungs. The pounding in his skull flares with vengeance and Sam immediately realizes something is wrong when Dean starts hacking up his lungs. Or maybe it’s Dean’s pathetic shaking that gives him away, who the fuck knows. Sam releases him but keeps one hand on his shoulder as he pulls back and gives Dean a concerned once-over, his face growing more pinched as realization and worry dawns in his eyes.

“Are you okay?” Sam asks, too perceptive as always. Dean clears his throat and waves him off.   
“I’m fine. I bet you’re hungry and tired, huh? Let’s get out of here.” It’s a poor attempt at a subject change, but his thought process is getting all scrambled again by the headache and it’s the best he can do. That dizzy light-headed feeling is back and he fucking hates that. There’s nothing like feeling like you could black out at any moment for no goddamn reason. Sam furrows his brow and eyes him doubtfully but Dean just turns and starts pushing him towards the exit.   
“You smell sick, is it a cold?” Sam persists when they’re back in the rain, scouring the parking lot for Baby.   
“I told you, it’s nothing,” Dean dismisses without making eye contact. He spots the Impala and leads the way through the sea of cars while Sam badgers him with other guesses at what’s ailing him. It’s concerning that even Sam, with the weaker sense of smell that all betas have, can smell the illness on him; he must be really seriously sick, but it’s not like he didn’t already suspect as much. They get inside Baby and Dean starts her engine, immediately turning down the AC so Sam doesn’t get suspicious. Sam gives an annoyed huff but mercifully lets it go for the moment, fastening his seatbelt as Dean peels out of the lot. 

“Thanks for picking me up,” Sam says, and Dean musters up a genuine smile to give him because his life gone to shit aside, he really is happy to have Sam here again.   
“No problem. So how’s school been going? You and Jess get started on the wedding plans yet?” Dean asks, signaling a lane change to pass a car going too slow in front of them on the highway. It feels strange, trying to make conversation like everything is normal when Dean is broken and his life is in shambles because he lost the man he loves. But he does anyways, because talking to his little brother is the only thing making him feel even remotely less hollow. Plus, he’s curious about what he’s missed, with Sam living on his own and everything. Dean has a feeling he’ll never get used to his absence. Sam doesn’t need any more encouragement to launch into a conversation about how stressful pre-law is, and how he and Jess are waiting for Jess’ mother to come up and join them before they start making plans. It’s a good distraction, listening to Sam talk about his life, and Dean realizes just how much he’s been missing him and his college stories. Sam geeking out about criminal law and ethics and shit and getting this far-off look in his eyes when he talks about Jess fills him with amusement and fondness. The conversation is going great and Dean’s actually in a good mood for the first time in forever -- and then they get in the door and Sam turns the conversation back on him, back to interrogating him about his symptoms and if he’s been in to see a doctor yet. He looks around the kitchen and then heads into the living room, setting his suitcase down next to the couch before dropping down onto it. Sam suddenly changes the subject, catching Dean off guard.

“Where’s Cas?” He asks, and Dean freezes. _Fuck_ , Dean should have just entertained the sickness guessing game, because this is a line of questioning that’s so much fucking worse. He hadn’t even thought about the fact that he’s going to have to explain to Sam how he completely fucking ruined his life by wrecking everything he had with the man he loves. In the back of his mind he’d thought he’d at least get a little bit more time to figure out how the hell he’s going to even get any words out on the matter, but that lasted all of two seconds. Dean swallows hard and unfreezes, his heartbeat speeding up as he throws his keys on the counter before finally glancing over to meet Sam’s questioning gaze. He feels like he’s going to vomit; he can’t think about Cas, can’t talk about him and relive what happened or try to explain it to his brother. But he’s going to have to, and being an emotional dumbfuck about it is only going to make it harder on him. It’s better to just spit it out, fast and painless, and get it over with. He doesn’t have to get into it and talk about his feelings with Sam like they’re a couple of girls agonizing over a breakup -- he can just get it out and be done. Yeah, that’s a good plan, better do it now before he starts freaking out. 

“He, uh, we broke up.” The tentative emotional stability Dean had managed for the past half hour immediately collapses like a house of cards as the gravity of losing Cas hits him again, all at once. “He’s gone, Sammy,” Dean chokes out, face burning and throat desert-dry. His voice actually fucking cracks when he says ‘gone’ and fuck it all, so much for not getting emotional and losing his shit. Sam’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline and his eyes widen in shock and disbelief. Dean wants the floor to open up under his feet and swallow him whole. This is beyond the seventh circle of Hades, standing in front of his brother with his eyes prickling with tears, vulnerable and visibly about to fall apart, unable to hide just how broken he truly is without the omega. The pain and loss constricts tight around his insides with a vice-like grip, vicious and unyielding as ever as he futilely fights it back down, struggling to regain composure of himself. He can do this, he’s not going to break down, not in front of Sammy.

“What happened?” Sam asks, looking up at Dean with those puppy-dog eyes alight with sympathy. _You’re not going to fucking break down_ Dean repeats over and over in his head, but his heart clenches and a voice at the back of his mind asks him _you sure about that?_  
“He thought we were True Mates, Sammy.” Dean chokes out, throat tight with emotion. He feels like he’s on fire, his fever choosing now to go skyrocketing to hell. “And I told him that they don’t exist, and the only reason that he thinks they do is because his instincts are lying to him and making him think that he loves me when he really doesn’t.” Dean’s shaking again. He closes his eyes, feeling suffocated by the weight of his anguish and self hatred and everything else that comes with remembering what happened that night, his stomach pitching nauseatingly. The physical and mental sickness and pain is blurring together and he thinks he’s finally going to be sick.

“What the hell, Dean? Why would you say something like that? Don’t tell me you actually believe that shit, that he only loves you because he’s an omega,” Sam scolds, voice thick with disappointment and disapproval. That hits home, slamming Dean with more guilt, regret, pain, and self-loathing.   
“I do believe it, because it’s true,” Dean defends himself weakly, but the words taste like bile in the back of his throat.  
“That’s fucking ridiculous and you know it. He loves _you_ , Dean. He chose _you_. Not anyone else.” Sam counters fiercely. That hits Dean even harder, resonating in his bones with distinct certainty and undeniable truth.  
“But True Mates--”  
“True Mates or not! That doesn’t change how you two felt!” The nausea crests with the overpowering emotions and Dean stumbles as quickly as he can to the nearest bathroom, falling to his knees in front of the toilet before he’s violently ill. 

Dean’s stomach heaves and his throat burns as he vomits, his entire body trembling violently. His eyes water and he drags in a few breaths while he can, sagging against the toilet to support himself as all the strength is sapped out of him. He feels out of control, helpless and too weak to do anything but let the convulsions wrack him.Through the ringing in his ears, Dean vaguely hears Sam shout his name and then he’s suddenly kneeling beside him, one of his hands resting on Dean’s shoulder supportively. His cheeks flush with embarrassment at how pathetic he must look, shame joining the rest of the shitstorm of emotions inside him. He’s always been the strong alpha big brother, and now here he is, unable to control his own sick body as he’s overcome with emotion. Everything hurts so badly and feels so out of control that Dean can hardly focus on his shame, or anything else for that matter. He’s pretty sure if his body wasn’t so desperate to puke its guts up, he’d pass out right now. But no; he’s painfully conscious and miserable in every sense. He feels like he’s fucking dying, this sickness and the pain of losing Cas tearing him apart.

With a full body shudder, Dean is finally able to sit back on his heels and draw a shaky hand over his mouth as his vision blurs and he’s hit with another wave of vertigo. All he hears is the blood rushing in his ears, slowly turning down in volume so that he can hear what Sam’s saying. His brother is clutching his shoulders and speaking to him urgently, eyes bright with concern. “--hospital, you’re burning up. How long have you been like this? Dean? Dean!” Sam’s voice grows louder as Dean doubles over, unable to sit upright as he balances on the knife edge of consciousness.

“No hospital,” Dean rasps, fighting to stay lucid and get a hold of himself. His chest is heaving and he feels like he’s burning from the inside out with fever heat. Sam keeps talking but Dean can’t really hear or understand him. Everything fades black for a long moment and Dean has no idea how much time has passed when he’s abruptly pulled back into consciousness, senses finally sharpening.   
“Dean! Can you hear me?” Sam demands frantically, shaking his shoulders gently, eyes roving worriedly over his face.  
“Yeah, get off me,” Dean grunts, blinking as his vision focuses on his brother and the pain in his head lessens enough for him to think straight. Sam just shakes his head and tightens his arm around Dean’s shoulders, carefully helping him to his feet. Another wave of vertigo washes over Dean when he’s standing and he sways on his feet, but Sam keeps him steady while he rides it out.   
“I’m taking you to the hospital. You’re really sick and you need to see a doctor and get medical attention,” Sam says, voice firm and leaving no room for argument.   
“No hospitals, Sam. They’re unnecessary and I’m not gonna pay an arm and leg for a bunch of EMTs to do what I can do myself. If you’re really that worried then let’s just go to the doctor or some kind of clinic or something, I don’t fucking know,” Dean sighs, wondering how he’s going to make it to the car when he feels like he might collapse at any moment. 

“Fine. But if you pass out on me again, I’m taking you to the ER and that’s final.” Dean grunts in acknowledgement and does his best to keep his footing while they make their way to the car, Sam’s arm wrapped around his waist and Dean’s arm slung over his shoulders. Dean leans on him heavily, Sam pretty much carrying all his weight. He helps him into the passenger side seat and then hurries to start the engine and pull out of the garage fast enough that if Dean were feeling better he’d bitch about Sam not giving Baby time to warm up. Dean props his head up against the window and focuses on his breathing for the whole car ride, and by the time they get to the clinic, he’s feeling considerably more stable than he was twenty minutes ago. He doesn’t even need Sam’s help to make it into the waiting room, though Sam keeps insisting on having an arm around his shoulders just in case his legs decide to give out again. Dean’s still too weak to shove him off so he grumbles and ducks his head on the way inside the building. Dean finds a chair and Sam goes to talk to the woman at the front desk. It’s about a twenty minute wait and the sickness holds off even though the thoughts and feelings he has about Cas and what Sam said are tearing viciously through his mind.

“Dean Winchester?” A nurse opens one of the doors that lead out of the waiting room and calls his name. Dean gets to his feet, luckily feeling only vaguely dizzy when he does so instead of full on blacking out. Sam walks close beside him as they follow the nurse down the corridor, thankfully refraining from trying to help him walk again. Dean takes that as a good sign and hopes that his temporary stable condition lasts at least until he’s in bed again, where he won’t risk getting a concussion if he passes out and collapses. The clinical, sanitary scent of the clinic burns Dean’s nose with every breath but he’s oddly grateful for it; the harsh chemical smell subdues all of the scents of alpha, omega, sickness, and pain, which would otherwise no doubt bring the nausea back in full force. The nurse guides him into an examination room and tells him to sit on the examination table and while he gets to it, Sam takes a seat in a chair by the wall. Dean can’t stop turning what Sam said over and over in his head as the nurse takes his vitals and scribbles them down on her clipboard. She asks him to step on the scale and then jots his weight down before telling him to get back on the examination table. Dean hardly registers her saying she’ll be back with the doctor before she leaves; all he can think is what if he was the one blinded and not Cas, by his subconscious belief that no one could actually love him for him? What if he was _wrong_?

Dean’s suddenly interrupted out of his train of thought by the face of a middle-aged man introducing himself and sticking his hand out for Dean to shake. He shakes the beta’s hand -- Dr. Westner, the man says, and tries to focus on the conversation at hand and not on the thoughts racing through his mind at breakneck speed. “So what’s been troubling you, Mr. Winchester?” The doctor asks, looking at Dean’s charts or whatever is on the clipboard. Dean looks over at Sam, who just raises his eyebrows expectantly, as if silently warning Dean not to lie or downplay any of it. Dean rubs at his eyes and muffles an exhausted sigh.   
“Well, I feel pretty sick, been throwing up and getting dizzy a lot. I passed out a couple times and I think I might have a fever too.” Dean says, figuring that about sums it up. He could go on about how he has no energy, can’t sleep or eat, and how his head feels like it’s going to explode nearly 24/7, but he thinks the blanket statement he just made covers all of that. Dr. Westner nods and writes something down, then looks back up at Dean, studying his face. Apparently Dean was wrong to leave out the details, because now the doctor is asking him questions to get at everything he left out.  
“How has your appetite been? Your weight has decreased by twenty pounds since you were last in.”  
“Uh...not too good. Usually I throw up if I eat anything but I still try to get in a protein bar or somethin’.”  
“What about your sleeping pattern? Has it changed at all?” The questions persist and Dean answers as honestly as he can, Sam occasionally jumping in to answer the questions surrounding Dean passing out today because Dean doesn’t wasn’t really coherent to know the details of what happened.

Finally the doctor sets his clipboard down and gets up to wash his hands. A physical examination follows, but after, the doctor still hasn’t said anything about what he thinks the problem is. Dean’s sick of waiting, so he asks. “So what seems to be the problem, doc?” The beta pushes his glasses back up his nose and meets Dean’s eyes.  
“Your temperature is feverish, you’ve lost a considerable amount of weight, you have muscle inflammation, sensitivity to light, sound, and smell, and from what you’ve told me of your other symptoms, I’m led to advise we do a few tests to determine your illness. Some blood and urine tests should identify what virus you have, and since your condition is too far along for me to feel comfortable issuing you a blood test with the standard waiting period, I’m sending in a request for an urgent analysis. Head down to the lab on the lower level and I should get the results from your blood work in a couple of hours. I’ll meet with you then and we can discuss what we find.” the doctor says, and Dean nods his understanding, already climbing to his feet. Before he leaves, Dean heads to the bathroom to get a urine sample to give to Dr. Westner for more tests. With that out of the way, Sam goes with him to the lab downstairs and they wait for Dean’s turn to get his blood drawn. 

The next two hours pass by uneventfully and before he knows it, they’re back in the examination room. Dean’s quickly getting tired of being here and he feels exhausted by the whole process, but more so than anything else, he’s nearly sick with the creeping realization that Sam was right and Cas really, truly loved him for him and Dean fucked up beyond measure. He’s sure the reality and gravity of that realization is going to come crashing down on him as soon as he isn’t distracted by being interrogated and poked with needles; he feels the ominous weight of it mounting with each minute that passes. “Your blood work and the results from your urine test don’t reveal anything that could be responsible for your symptoms. Your results, for both tests, came back perfectly clean of any viruses or anything else that would raise my concerns.” Dr. Westerner announces, and Dean can smell the puzzlement on him. Dean exchanges a confused look with Sam before he looks back at the doctor, struggling to process what this means. 

“So what’s wrong with me then?” he asks, and the doctor runs a hand over his chin and glances down at the clipboard in his hand again before looking back up.   
“There are several more diagnostic tests we can run to rule things out, if not pinpoint exactly what is causing your symptoms. While blood and urine tests are usually sound a indicators of an issue occurring within the body, there are some things that they can’t account for. We’ll start with a MRI, then, if necessary, a…” Dr. Westner outlines a few other tests but they’re all mostly meaningless to Dean -- he doesn’t understand what each entails and he figures it doesn’t really matter, since he’ll find out when he takes them all soon enough. Sam asks a few questions and Dean zones out as they talk, wondering what could be fucking him up so badly. If the blood and urine tests don’t account for it, does that mean that this thing is pretty serious? Who the hell knows, Dean just wants to get these damn tests over with so he can get out of here and have his emotional crisis about Cas in the privacy of his own damn home.

***

A few hours and several tests later finds Dean sitting right back where he was before, on the examination table with jack squat about what the hell is making him feel like he’s dying. He’s exhausted and wants nothing more than to go home, but neither Sam nor Dr. Westner are allowing him to leave without finding out what’s wrong. His head is absolutely killing him and the vague background dizziness and nausea is slowly but surely becoming more prominent. Not to mention his whole body aches like he’s just run a marathon without having ever practiced or stretched first. They finally get to the point where the doctor leaves the room and says he’s going to be right back after he makes a call to a specialist. Dean doesn’t know what kind of specialist and he doesn’t care. He’s beyond caring about anything but _Cas_.

All that matters to him anymore is Cas, all he can think about is Cas, everything he feels revolves entirely around Cas. He’s spent all this time reflecting on their relationship and now, in hindsight, he can see just how immensely wrong he was to chalk Cas’ feelings for him up to biology. Biology can’t fake the way Cas looked at him like he hung the moon and stars, it can’t be responsible for how Cas cares about him and knows him like no one ever has, and it definitely can’t be what compelled Cas to declare his love for Dean, over and over again like it was absolutely _everything_. There’s just no way. Biology may be responsible for some of the physical attraction, but it can’t fake _love_. And Dean has absolutely no doubts that that’s exactly what it was Cas really felt for him -- and it should never have taken Sam talking some sense into him for Dean to realize that. 

“The complete lack of physical causation for your symptoms could be because the issue isn’t physical at all. Its effects could just be manifesting physically in the form of your symptoms, which is why I’ve called in an expert in the field of interpersonal metaphysical bonds, since that area of specialty is not one I am well educated or practiced in. He will be here shortly, but until then, if you could answer a few questions about your current partner, it would be quite helpful in giving Dr. Collins the context to better understand your case.” Dr. Westner startles him out of his thought process and Dean nods as much as he dares with his over reactive headache.  
“Yeah, sure, except I don’t have a ‘current partner’.” This immediately sparks Dr. Westner’s attention.   
“So you aren’t currently mated or bonded?” Dean shakes his head no, forcing himself not to think about it too much so that he doesn’t end up breaking down in front of the doctor. “Would you mind describing your last relationship for me?” The beta goes on, and Dean grits his teeth. Of course. It’s only natural that the universe isn’t done punishing him for fucking up with Cas by making him talk about the relationship he ruined. Like he’s not punishing himself enough as it is. Dean swallows hard and internally steels himself.   
“It was with an omega. We were, uh, pretty close, but we hadn’t mated or anything like that. We split like a week and a half ago.” It’s just then that there’s a knock on the door and an alpha wearing a doctor’s coat enters the room, offering Dean a smile and a handshake while he introduces himself as Dr. Collins, metaphysical bond specialist. Dr. Westner summarizes everything that’s happened thus far, including Dean’s symptoms, the tests, and Dean’s description of his and Cas’ relationship, and then leaves so Dr. Collins can take over. 

Dr. Collins picks up right where Dr. Westner left off. His demeanor is very calm and non threatening for an alpha, which helps Dean respond a little less tensely than he normally would be. “Could you describe the extent of your feelings for your partner? And your perception of what he felt for you in return?” Dean was wrong. _This_ is the hardest question. Cas was and is everything to him, and Dean is way too shit at words to even remotely communicate just how deeply he felt for the omega. He hates talking about his feelings anyways, with strangers even more so, but damn him to hell if he doesn’t at least try. There’s got to be a good reason Dr. Collins is asking, right? Dean doubts it, but it’s not like he can just wave the question away with a ‘pass’.   
“I’m in love with him, so I guess you could say my feelings are pretty serious. And he loves me -- well, at least he did.” Dean swallows noisily, his throat suddenly too dry. This is fucking awful and he almost wishes that whatever’s wrong with him would just hurry the hell up and kill him just so he doesn’t have to answer anymore of these damned painful questions. Dr. Collins holds his gaze for a moment and then writes something down and Dean shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

“When exactly did you two separate?”  
“A week and a half ago.” That Dean can answer. He knows the exact number of days, because he’s been painfully, agonizingly aware of each one.   
“You said that the two of you shared a living space earlier. Does that mean your former partner no longer lives with you?  
“Yeah. He moved out.” Dean avoids saying ‘back in with his sexist, asshole ex’ but only because he’s got some miraculous self restraint. That aside, Dean’s not seeing what any of this has to do with why he’s so sick. Why is he even seeing a metaphysical bond specialist? Aren’t they reserved for people whose mates have died or something? This makes no sense at all.  
“And at what time would you say you started noticing your symptoms?” Dean has to stop and think about that one. It’s a little bit hard to tell exactly when they started because he was wasted for a while right after Cas left, but he’s pretty sure he remembers feeling distinctly sick two or three days after. He says as much and Dr. Collins sets his clipboard down on his lap, caps his pen, and meets Dean’s eyes with full attention. The way he’s looking at Dean with something bordering on amazement is more than a little unnerving. Dean’s not about to let the suspense get any worse -- the doctor clearly has just figured out whatever the fuck is going on and Dean doesn’t like the poorly concealed fascination written all over his face.  
“What?”

“It is my professional opinion that you are suffering from withdrawal from your mate.” Dr. Collins announces, and Dean blinks at him, unable to process and understand what that means. His mind reels, catching up with the doctor’s words, and he furrows his brow in confusion. What the fuck? Isn’t that what happens when newly mated couples are separated or something? How the hell is that what’s going on with him? He doesn’t even have a mate, for fuck’s sake, there has to be a mistake--  
“What? I’m not mated, how can--” Dean stutters, brain running a mile a minute. Dr. Collins saves him from his bewildered rambling and explains further.  
“In extremely rare cases, you don’t have to be. As I’m sure you’re aware, when an alpha and omega mate, a metaphysical bond is forged between them. This bond does many different things, but one of the most important is that it ties two people together so inextricably that their souls, or life essences or whatever you believe animates a person, are in simplest terms, codependent on each other. There are anomalies where two people are biologically and spiritually perfectly compatible, and in these cases, a bond is formed from the minute they meet. The scientific name for them is _anima alterum_ , but they are more commonly known as--”  
“True Mates,” Dean breathes. The doctor nods and continues like Dean’s entire world has not just shifted on its axis and started spinning in the opposite direction.   
“--yes. Your body knows what it needs, and by extending the separation and unfulfilled state of your bond, you are denying it and consequently straining the bond and by extension yourself. An unfulfilled True Mate bond paired with both physical and metaphysical separation -- in your case, the distance between you and your True Mate and the current emotional state of your relationship -- can be just as or even more draining than actual withdrawal experienced by mated pairs. Your symptoms are the manifestation of the strain on your bond, which is why the diagnostic tests weren’t able to identify the problem.”

Dean is frozen stock still, so overcome and floored by realization that he forgets to breathe until his vision starts to tunnel and he draws in a lungful of air on automatic. It feels like his entire world has just collapsed in on itself and the sheer magnitude of what’s going on is still sinking layer by layer into his brain. His heart hammers in his chest, the blood pounding in his ears, and he feels like he’s on fire, he’s burning so hot from the inside out. Dean’s chest feels tight and constricted like his throat and he feels incapable of moving or doing anything but sitting right where he is in utter and complete shock as the realization takes root. 

_He and Castiel are True Mates_.

Dean was so fucking _wrong_. He fucked up so bad, holy shit, it’s almost dizzying. He ruined their relationship because he didn’t believe in True Mates and was a total fucking dick about it, but True Mates are real, Cas was right, _they are True Mates_. 

Dean has fucked up so, so bad. 

He can hardly even grasp it, the reality of it all is so immense. It fits perfectly with what Sam said earlier, about how Cas genuinely loved him for him and not because biology ordered it. All along they were True Mates, all along Cas loved Dean just as truly, deeply, and sincerely as Dean loves Cas. They were _made_ for each other, _holy shit_. Dean’s head spins and the doctor leaves the room, saying he’ll give Dean a moment to get his bearings, but Dean hardly hears him. He’d completely forgotten about Sam in the room with him but now Sam is out of his seat and is saying something to Dean with concern in his eyes and worry clouding his voice, but Dean doesn’t register any of it. All he can focus on is his realization. The shock is rapidly fading, driven out by an overwhelming flood of regret and horror at what he’s done. Cas was right, they’re True Mates, Cas really loved him, he tried to tell Dean, and Dean blew it all to hell like a the biggest fucking dick to ever exist. How could he have done that? How could he not have believed Cas when Cas was telling him something so important and obviously true? How could he have been such a douchebag when Cas was sharing his feelings with him, and on such a sacred subject at that? How could Dean have been so fucking blind, and even worse, how could he have been such a complete, selfish asshole to the man with whom he is still impossibly, irrevocably head over heels for?

His body’s reaction suddenly makes sense. He lost his _True Mate_ , for God’s sake, no wonder he’s dying. Castiel is gone, he doesn’t want him or love him anymore, and now here Dean is, dying from withdrawal because he ruined the the best thing to ever happen to him.

The nausea and dizziness is back in full force, threatening to drag him under, and Dean can’t help but think about how he deserves it, now that he _knows_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies, I have some bad news. Life is really kicking my ass between college, work, and interning, and I'm really struggling with time restraints. So I unfortunately will no longer have regularly scheduled updates for this fic, at least for the time being. I will, however, update as frequently and quickly as I am able, and I definitely will not stop writing this fic! Thank you so, so much for bearing with me and for your support, it really means the world and I couldn't do this without you guys, so thank you from the bottom of my heart <3
> 
> Also! This fic now has fucking amazing cover up thanks to my incredibly talented sister and best friend Maya (artistiel.tumblr.com)! If you like the cover art please comment and let her know, she deserves all the praise! <3 Go take a look at chapter one and see it for yourself! If you look closely you can see Dean and Cas in the Impala! :)
> 
> Thank you again, I love you guys to pieces <3


	25. Desperate Times Call for Desperate Measures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd! Anyone up for betaing this fic from here on out? I can pay you with a ficlet of your choice! :')

Every single puzzle piece has fallen into place and the impact of the completed picture just keeps hitting Dean, the initial realization rippling out like the seismic waves of an earthquake and triggering epiphany after epiphany. 

 

Everything makes sense now.

 

The synced heat and rut cycles, how Cas went into heat even though he wasn’t near due for one just hours after Dean went into rut. The way Cas smells extraordinarily better than all omegas, in such a way that it should have been a dead give away right from the first breath he took of Cas’ scent. How just Dean’s presence after years of distance was all it took to finally bring about Cas’ much delayed presentation. How he and Cas are seamlessly compatible, right down to their initial ‘click’ upon their first real conversation at the hospital, to how so much of their communication doesn’t even need to be verbal, their bond is so strong. 

 

From the very beginning, all of it has pointed to True Mates. Every part of their relationship and lives together has only amounted to the existence of that bond. It’s always been unmistakable, even though neither he nor Cas realized it for the longest time.

 

 _Unmistakable_. 

 

If it was so unmistakable, then _how the fuck_ did Dean miss it, even when the man he loved told it straight to his face?

 

The road in front of Dean is starting to fade out with his vision, and he feels detached from his body, like he isn’t actually in control and driving the car. The seat beneath him and the steering wheel his hands are wrapped around don’t feel real. The hum of the engine and now unintelligible drone of Sam’s voice joins the blur that all of Dean’s senses have condensed into and the shock finally takes its toll, or maybe it’s the strain on his soul that’s responsible for shit finally hitting the fan. There’s a good chance that both are to blame for the wave of blackness that rises up inside Dean and finally crashes down on him, dragging him under and flooding his mind. He’s unconscious for what has to be only seconds before he comes to to the high-pitched screech of metal grating on metal and Sam swearing panickedly beside him. There’s a disorienting gap in Dean’s memory and everything registers disjointedly, taking a long time to make sense in his muddy, pain-filled mind. He tries to understand why Sam is leaning across him with his hands on the wheel and why they aren’t moving and cars are speeding past in a chorus of honking horns, but his brain feels stuck in molasses. 

 

There’s a low buzzing in his ears that slowly turns down in volume until Dean can hear what Sam is saying to him, so he can hear the worry thick in his little brother’s voice. Dean belatedly notices there’s a new, throbbing pain in his forehead, and it takes a long time for him to connect the dots and realize that he must’ve passed out and hit his head on the steering wheel. “Dean! Can you hear me? Just stay with me, I’m calling 911!” Sam demands, eyes frantic as he grabs his phone out of his pocket and places a hand on Dean’s shoulder, as if afraid Dean’ll pass out and slam his face on the steering wheel again. Dean’s brain is finally coming back online and he shakes his head jerkily, the motion only causing more sharp pain to rip through his skull.   
“No, don’t, I’m fine now. Fuck, what happened?” Dean croaks, still trying to fill in the missing pieces of his memory. The Impala is pulled up against the guardrail on the freeway, and it slowly occurs to the alpha that when he blacked out, Sam must’ve guided the car over and slammed on the brakes so that they didn’t crash. That explains the honking, and how Sam’s foot is now smothering the brake, probably after having shoved his foot off the gas. Sam lifts an eyebrow dubiously but pauses in dialing the number.   
“Dean, you need to go to the hospital. You just blacked out while driving, and you might have a concussion because you weren’t wearing your damn seatbelt and you hit your head--” Sam worries breathlessly. Dean holds up a hand to stop him, gritting his teeth against the mounting pain in his head. He’s not going to pass out again, dammit. He needs to get a hold of himself. 

 

“I don’t have a concussion and I don’t need to go to the ER, Sam, I’m fine. It won’t happen again.” Dean vows, trying to convince the both of them. Sam doesn’t look like he believes him about that last part for even a second, but he sighs deeply and lets his hand fall away from Dean’s shoulder. Dean can practically smell Sam’s concern and doubt, startlingly potent for a beta.  
“Fine, but I’m driving us the rest of the way home. And I swear to God, if you so much as _look_ like you’re gonna knock out again, I’m turning this car around and heading straight for the hospital.” Sam declares firmly, and Dean sighs in surrender and opens his door to get out and switch places with Sam. Getting to his feet makes his legs feel like they might give out at any second and a sudden onslaught of vertigo is almost enough to make him stagger, but he gets a grip on it just long enough to walk around to the passenger side of the Impala. It’s then that he sees the deep, ugly scrape gouged into the previously flawless black paint of Baby’s side from when she must’ve drifted against the guardrail before Sam was able to get control of her.   
“Fucking fantastic,” Dean growls, scrubbing a hand viciously through his hair. Despite how pissed the scrape makes him, it doesn’t take long for thoughts of Cas to return and overshadow everything else. He gets into the passenger side of the car and his thoughts are immediately pulled back to orbit his omega, as if there is a gravitational pull always drawing him back to the man who is his world. Dean can start to feel the emotional breakdown beginning to crack the protective walls he built to keep it contained while in public. It’s only a matter of time before it guts him and brings him to his knees.

 

Dean lost his True Mate, his omega, his Cas. He’s honest to God _dying_ from being separated from the man he loves.

 

And it’s all his damn fault. 

 

Cas has moved on, Cas is never gonna want him or love him again, he hurt Cas and ruined their relationship and now he has nothing left of the omega but these withdrawal symptoms to remind him that he isn’t whole without his True Mate and never will be.

 

What in the hell is he supposed to do?

 

What _can_ he do?

 

***

 

“I’m leaving for a bit to go get you some more meds and pick up some take away for dinner. Do you need anything else while I’m out?” Balthazar asks from the kitchen, grabbing his keys and pocketing his wallet. Castiel shakes his head weakly, not attempting to speak for fear of how rough and cracked his voice will sound, with his throat dry and sore as it is. He’s never felt so miserable in his life. Balthazar has been doing his best to help since he returned from his business trip, making a doctor’s appointment for the soonest available time (which is unfortunately in four days) and going on runs to get him medicine at the drugstore. Castiel has pretty high doubts that any over-the-counter meds will do what the others haven’t and make even a dent in whatever is ailing him, but he supposes it doesn’t hurt to give them a try. Since he can’t see a doctor until Thursday, this is the next best thing. 

 

“Okay. Phone me if you change your mind,” the alpha calls, already heading out the door. Castiel releases a shaky breath, shuddering hard as he curls more tightly in on himself under the mass of blankets piled on top of him. He’s so cold, all of the time, and nothing he does is ever enough to warm him up to a normal temperature. It’s a good thing he’s been unconscious for the better part of the day -- he doesn’t know how else he’d be able to put up with this constant head-splitting migraine. He hasn’t tried to get up except a couple times to use the bathroom, and that’s a good thing, because every time he does he either collapses or nearly does from vertigo or because he’s too unsteady to remain upright for long. And he’s still long overdue for a heat, on top of everything else. If Castiel didn’t know any better, he’d say that it feels like he’s dying. But he can’t be, right? What illness could he possibly contract that is making him feel this awful with so many symptoms, yet is impossible to identify?

 

It must be worrying Balthazar, at least a little, seeing as the alpha has been eager to get Castiel to a doctor and to pick up medicine for him. Or maybe it’s just the alpha in Balthazar naturally responding to a sick and distressed omega, his instincts automatically driving him to help in whatever way that he can. Despite the perpetual fog of haziness and pain always filling his head, Castiel has been lucid and perceptive enough to realize that there is a clear difference between how Balthazar cares for him and how _Dean_ had cared for him. With Dean, there was a distinct emotional factor always present, evident right from the start in the way he took extreme care in everything he did and always focused on making sure Castiel knew he was safe, that he knew Dean was there and would make him feel better. With Dean, there was affection, there was warmth, there was _love_. While Balthazar does his best to help Castiel in whatever ways he can (which are admittedly very few, considering Castiel’s unprecedented condition), it’s obvious that he isn’t driven to do so for the same reasons Dean was. 

 

Castiel knows without a doubt why that is, right down to his core: it’s _Dean_ who loves Castiel, not Balthazar. 

 

And Castiel loves Dean. He loves his True Mate (and despite how he’d tried to convince himself otherwise, there’s no doubting that that is exactly what they are) more than anything. It doesn’t matter how much he tries to forget or distance himself from both thoughts of and feelings for the alpha; he loves Dean, and that overshadows all else. It’s agonizing, acknowledging these facts, because what do they mean for him, beyond this longing, anguish, and loss that has no discernible end? Despite the pain of it all, Castiel has never been one to lie to or delude himself. He loves Dean and will always love him, and if he came back here thinking he could start over with Balthazar and just forget about Dean, then he was incredibly mistaken. There’s just no way Castiel could ever be with Balthazar like he was with Dean, and he has absolutely no desire to be. 

 

Every fiber of his being protests the idea of forming any kind of relationship with Balthazar again, the reaction visceral and nearly shocking in its potency. There’s a background instinctual voice in his head that’s always niggling him with _wrong, wrong alpha, wrong wrong wrong_ every time he gets a strong whiff of Balthazar’s scent, like the True Mate bond is reminding him it isn’t Baltazar that he belongs with. Biological reaction aside, Castiel is still convinced that he and Balthazar could never have a relationship like the one they used to have, or any form of one beyond friendship. When the alpha had cheated on him, he’d broken Castiel’s trust permanently and ruined any chance that Castiel could ever be close to him again. Even before that, their relationship was static and unhealthy, especially sexually. There was never really any connection between them, and now that Castiel knows what true love feels like and has experienced the immense depth and strength of it, of a True Mate bond, there is simply no way he could ever go back. Not after what he had with Dean. It’d be like having full, brilliant, vivid technicolor vision, where you can see _everything_ in brilliant IMAX clarity, only to go nearly blind, able to see just in grainy black and white through a small, scratched lens.

 

Besides. _Dean_ is the one Castiel wants. There’s no denying that his whole being yearns for him -- heart, mind, body, soul. 

 

Castiel has come to terms with the truth and reality of it, and it hurts beyond measure. But it’s real, and he’d rather have reality, in all of its pain and sorrow, than numbness and detachment.

 

Now that the wall he’d constructed between him and his emotions is gone, all he has are soul-deep longing and grief to accompany this illness that feels like it is draining the life out of him.

 

***

 

“Fuck.” Dean scowls at the sandpaper in his hand. He’s shaking so badly that he’s having trouble buffing out the scrapes in Baby’s side, his muscles quivering and unwilling to cooperate. He swipes sweat out of his eyes with the back of his free hand and crouches next to the car, determined to get her looking good as new. Fixing her is the one thing he can actually do right now. He can’t stop himself from dying, he can’t make Cas love him again and restore things back to how they were before he shot everything to hell, he can’t even fucking walk straight, but he _can_ polish out these damned scratches. Dean grits his teeth, ignoring the light-headed dizziness making his stomach roil and his mind swim. It feels like it’s a hundred degrees in the garage, like he’s burning up with fever, and his muscles are weak and achy from the constant work he’s putting them though instead of resting. Sweat continues to sting his eyes and he exhales a long breath through his nose, fighting to concentrate on the task at hand and not his failing health, or how fucking wrecked he is emotionally. 

 

_Cas is your True Mate._

 

Dean sands the scrape with trembling hands. It’s like a fucking sauna in here, even though he isn’t wearing a shirt and it’s hardly above forty degrees outside. The cold wind blowing in through the opened garage door is his only saving grace.

 

_You lost your True Mate._

 

Nausea constricts around Dean’s stomach and he clenches his jaw, fighting to take steady breaths. His eyes are blurry and it’s hard to focus them on the jagged line tarnishing Baby’s paint job. 

 

_It’s all your fault._

 

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway pulls Dean’s attention away from his imminent emotional breakdown. For a second he thinks it’s Sam, but then he remembers that Sam took the bus to the grocery store because Dean wanted to work on the Impala and be alone for a little while. So who is it, did someone get the wrong house? Dean struggles to his feet, bracing himself with one hand on the hood of his car until his legs feel like they’ll be able to support his weight. When he looks out of the garage, he sees an unfamiliar man climbing out of a blue Prius, wearing jeans and a black blazer over a gray shirt with a plunging v-neck. “Did you get lost trying to find a house ‘round here, pal?” Dean calls to the man as he starts walking over, probably needing Dean to point him in the right direction.  
“Actually no, I believe I’m in the right place. I’m here for Dean. That’s you, correct? I don’t want to have gotten the wrong residence,” the man says in a thick English accent. Dean furrows his brow in bewilderment, but then the man stops in front of him, now just a few feet away, and Dean gets a deep breath of his scent. He reeks of alpha, the smell thick and bitter in Dean’s lungs, and while it’s pretty potent standing in such close proximity to him, it does nothing to stop Dean from immediately picking up the faint scent beneath. He could easily detect it out of a crowd of hundreds, instantly recognizing the familiar, unbearably sweet honey-and-cloves scent as _mine_. It’s like a punch to the face, smelling his _True Mate_ on someone who isn’t him. It’s _wrong_. Dean is the only one who gets to smell like that, who gets to carry the scent of _his_ omega, not this fucking knothead who has dared to show up at Dean’s place with _his_ True Mate’s scent on him. 

 

A guttural growl tears its way out of Dean’s throat. His alpha instincts have him immediately unhinged, seeing red as fire rushes through his veins. With a sudden surge of strength, Dean grabs a fistful of the man’s shirt and slams him hard against the wall of the garage, pinning him there with an arm against his throat. All he can think is that this fucking douchebag smells like _his_ mate and it fills him with a distinct possessive, protective rage. The alpha swallows hard as he eyes him. “Jesus H. Christ, I didn’t actually believe him at first when he told me that you seduced him by hitting him with your car, but now I’m a little more inclined,” he coughs, struggling to get out of Dean’s grip. Dean narrows his eyes, the comment causing understanding to dawn on him and draw him out of his violent haze. This must be Balthazar, Cas’ knothead ex; that would explain that remark, how he knows who Dean is in the first place, and why the hell he smells like _Dean’s_ omega. Dean forcibly unclenches his jaw and releases a long breath through his gritted teeth, fighting back his instinct to tear the guy’s throat out.   
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Dean growls, forcing himself to release his grip on Balthazar. The alpha exhales loudly and then reaches up to massage his windpipe, giving Dean an exasperated eye roll that doesn’t help Dean keep his blood pressure down.  
“I’m here because you and Castiel are blind as bats and I can’t deal with it anymore. So I’m going to play bloody Dr. Phil and save the day. This is becoming too much like _Titanic_ for me to handle,” Balthazar says with a long-suffering sigh. The adrenaline is quickly draining out of Dean and he can feel the sudden burst of energy fading as suddenly as it had come, his muscles turning weak and his legs unsteady once again. His head resumes hurting like a bitch and Balthazar’s accented words are even harder to understand and make sense of because of it.

 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dean bites out, taking a few stagger steps back and leaning against his car so he can get help supporting his weight and staying upright while being subtle about it. He wants Balthazar to get the hell out of his garage, but he’s too weak and sick without the help of his adrenaline-fueled instincts to physically remove him. Not to mention now that he’s slumping against his car and fighting to stay standing upright, he isn’t intimidating enough to make Balthazar feel threatened to the point where he’ll leave of his own accord. The British douchebag is already continuing and Dean’s head swims as he tries to keep up.   
“I thought I was pretty blunt, but since it seems to have gone over your head, I’ll clarify further. You royally fucked up, and while I don’t know the exact details because Castiel hasn’t been in a very talkative mood lately, I do know whatever you did was bad enough to send him running back to me. At first I was going to let him live his life and do whatever, make his own decisions and the like. But I can’t sit by and watch him run himself into the ground any longer. He’s been doing terribly ever since he showed up on my doorstep -- he’s depressed and he won’t talk or eat, and he’s been too sick lately even to get out of bed.” 

 

Dean is stunned by the fact that Castiel is apparently just as miserable as he is and hasn’t happily moved on with Balthazar like a part of Dean feared he might. A second wave of shock hits him when he hears that Cas is bedridden with sickness… . Castiel is having withdrawal symptoms too, of fucking course, how the hell did Dean not think of this earlier?! Balthazar continues while Dean’s mind is still reeling with the new information and his dawning horror at how he’s been so focused on what he was going through that it didn’t even occur to him Cas could be going through it too. “The whole apartment reeks of heartbroken, mopey omega, and the blasted pining is driving me crazy. Castiel is a wreck without you, and judging by all of this--” Balthazar gestures vaguely at all of Dean, no doubt referring to his appearance, anguished alpha scent, and general ‘my-life-is-in-shambles’ demeanor, “you are just as much of a wreck without him. So here I am, getting involved and quite rudely slammed up against a wall because I’ve decided that I need to put an end to your stubbornness. He’s obviously still in love with you and even I can see that fixing things with you is what is best for him.” Balthazar rubs a hand over his face. “Dear God, when did I become a professional in couple’s counseling?”

 

Dean feels like he can’t breathe. 

 

 _Castiel is still in love with him._

 

His head spins and his heart slams out a violent rhythm in his chest as the realization sinks in, leaving him lightheaded and in shock. Cas didn’t move on, didn’t get back together with his ex, didn’t get over Dean like he meant nothing to him. No. Cas is still in love with him, so much so that he’s miserable and sad to the point where even his self-centered knothead ex could tell what was going on. Castiel still loves him. His omega didn’t stop loving him back, even though Dean ruined everything, even though he hurt Cas and invalidated him and so much worse, _Cas still loves him_. If Dean still didn’t believe in True Mates, that right there is more than enough to convince him. That’s some fucking love, holy hell, Dean can’t even wrap his mind around its immensity. He loves Cas so fucking much, and by some miracle, Cas still loves him too, despite Dean blowing everything to hell in every way possible.

 

It’s then Dean realizes with soul-deep conviction that he is going to do everything in his power to fix things with Cas. He loves Cas and Cas means too much for him to do anything but exactly that. Cas was and is his everything, is his True Mate, his omega, the man he loves with all he has, and Dean’ll be damned to the deepest pits of hell if he doesn’t do his best to make things right with Cas again. He doesn’t want anything but for Cas to know he loves him, that he knows he completely fucked up and he is _so unbelievably fucking sorry_. Cas is going through the same withdrawal as Dean is right now, and Dean absolutely will not let him suffer through it any longer, not when Dean did this to him and can still do something to try and fix it. 

 

Cas is sick and in pain, so ill that he can’t even get out of bed, and every instinct inside of Dean demands that he find his omega and take care of him _right fucking now_. Every fiber of his being aches to be with his omega, nursing him back to health and holding Cas in his arms, comforting him with promises to never hurt him or leave him ever again. But he can’t do any of that until he fixes things with his True Mate. Dean has never been so driven to do anything in his life than he is now to find Cas and bend the will of heaven and hell if he must in order to make amends. There’s nothing more important than showing Cas how much he loves him and how much Cas means to him, how he understands his mistakes and is extremely fucking sorry for them, and how he will never do or say anything to Cas like that again. Even if Cas doesn’t forgive him or want to see or hear from him ever again. Dean knows he deserves that and worse, but Cas doesn’t deserve what he’s going through right now even in the slightest. Dean has to make things right.

 

And he knows exactly how he’s going to try and do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that it took me so long to update! Next update should definitely not take over a month (especially since I'll be on winter break, hell yeah!). Thank you so much to everyone who has been so supportive, understanding, and kind <3 It means more to me than I have words for! Thanks so much for reading and commenting, I love you guys <3 Oh, and happy Thanksgiving! :D I'm thankful for all of you wonderful people <3


	26. Mind Over Matter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by MiniCupcakeC, who I am very lucky to work with! <3

“Dean look, they’re having a sale on slick-resistant sheets. And it looks like they even have purple paisley, your favorite!” Sam calls to him from an aisle over. Dean rounds the corner, glaring first as his brother, then at the hideous discount sheets, then back to his brother. He jabs a finger accusatorily at him.  
“You shut your cakehole. The only reason you’re even here right now is because I might pass out and brain myself on a chair display or somethin’. So don’t annoy me or I’ll puke on you.”  
“I was just trying to _help_ , jerk,” Sam retorts, pulling one of his classic bitchfaces. Dean snorts and rolls his eyes, turning his attention back on the shelves full of hundreds of different types of sheets.  
“Sure you were, bitch.” Despite how much Dean loves his little brother, this is definitely nearing the top of his list of ‘Things Dean Really Doesn’t Want To Take His Little Brother To’. Despite ‘to IKEA for nest shopping’ being pretty high up on that list, Dean didn’t really have any other choices but to demand Sam drive him since he can’t drive (or even really walk straight for any great distance) for himself and he’s on one hell of a tight time schedule. Every minute he spends here is one more minute that Cas is forced to suffer through withdrawal, that his symptoms get worse and Dean isn’t there to do what he can to fix things. This is arguably one of the worst times for Dean to be a perfectionist, so naturally, it’s when he absolutely must take extreme care in picking only the very best and ideal things out. He’s never had a task so important in his life, never felt such as intense a drive to do something as he does to build Castiel a nest. 

 

An alpha building a nest for the omega he is courting is one of the oldest and most sacred courtship practices in the world. It’s been practiced for centuries in dozens of different cultures and Dean knows all of this because he stayed up until the ass crack of dawn this morning researching about the tradition -- from where it originated, its significance, and most importantly, how to make the perfect nest. It’s never been more crucial for Dean to get everything exactly right than it is now, and his instincts are going off the walls urging him to do just that. The idea of building a nest for Cas had hit him last night in a sudden burst of insight. He’s shit at words and ultimately words mean nothing if you don’t have the actions to prove them, and according to the articles he’d read and the books he’d checked out, there is no action that better demonstrates just how dedicated and committed to being Cas’ mate he is than building a nest for him. Following the most treasured courting ritual there is, nests are built to show the omega an alpha desires to mate how capable they are of providing for, protecting, and caring for their potential mate. They’re also as romantic and intimate of a gesture that one can do, because you’re essentially incorporating all of your knowledge about this person -- from who they are to what they like and what makes them feel comfortable, safe, and happy -- into a nest only for them to share with you.

 

Dean’s never been a very traditional guy, but this is going to be the one exception. He wants to give Cas the world, wants to build him a nest to show him that he means more to Dean than anything, that Dean is one thousand percent committed to him, to being the best mate for him in every way possible. Building a nest for Cas will show him that there is nothing Dean wants more than him, than to be his mate and have his omega completely and fully, in all the ways that used to terrify him but now are some of his deepest and strongest desires. He wishes that he could be doing all of this by himself like a strong, capable alpha, without Sam here to babysit him and make sure he doesn’t have a withdrawal-induced seizure or something. But since he’s the selfish dumbass who got himself into this mess in the first place and made it so his building a nest for Cas is under less than ideal circumstances, he’s going to deal with it and get down to business. Time continues to go by while he struggles to pick out the best things to make his nest, and all the while, Cas is only getting sicker. 

 

If he’s ever going to get anywhere though, he’s going to need to clear his mind and focus completely on the task at hand. This is one of the most important things he’s ever going to do in his entire life, and not only does he not want to waste time, but he also wants to do a downright fucking amazing job so he can show Cas just how much he loves and treasures him. So that’s what he’s damn well gonna do. 

 

The hardest part is figuring out where to start. He’s so caught up in how important every little detail is to make what has to be the best nest ever that he doesn’t even know where to begin. It doesn’t help that IKEA is just so fucking huge and has so much in it, and don’t even get him started on how conscious he is of each passing minute only adding to the pressure to hurry. Dean mentally curses himself out -- he’s overthinking and it’s making everything escalate and that’s the last thing he needs right now. He can _do_ this. It doesn’t matter that he has a fever probably over 105 degrees, that he’s on three different kinds of painkillers, that it hurts to think and breathe and his entire body seems to be rebelling against him. He is going to do this and do it damn well. Last night he read all about what kind of things make omegas feel safe, comfortable, and warm in a nest, and all he has to do is combine that with what he knows of Cas and his preferences and tastes. He knows all of the components to making a perfect nest pretty in depth at this point; his eyes are heavy and he has bags under them from sleep deprivation to prove it. So what’s he waiting for, withdrawal to kill him off before he can even pick out a set of sheets? No more wasting time. He drank two cups of coffee this morning, and armed with the energy and drive his alpha nesting instincts give him, Dean’s ready to finally put his credit card to good use and build Cas the best fucking nest the world has ever seen.

 

He’s already spent a good hour and a half picking out the best mattress, so it makes sense to move on to the sheets next. He probably took more time than he should have selecting a mattress, but he had to lay on each one of them and make sure that he picked the one with the right size, support, material, cushioning, firmness to squishiness ratio, and so on. He had almost gone with a California King because it was by far the biggest mattress and had a ton of room, but then he remembered that Cas would no doubt feel cozier if they were sharing a smaller space, so that meant nothing bigger than a King. He’s gone with memory foam too, because if he recalls correctly from that one night they got to sleep in the same bed, Cas liked his memory foam top mattress as much as he did. Sam had had his fun and laid on all the mattresses too, and Dean had pointedly ignored all of his comments, determined to decide completely for himself what to pick without his little brother’s assistance. Now that Sam is occupied with looking at some atrocious flannel sheets for his own bed, Dean’s safe to figure out which sheets are best for his and Cas’ nest without Sam breathing down his neck and offering his own unhelpful opinions. 

 

The articles Dean’d read earlier had all said that omegas need really soft sheets, because their skin is extra sensitized when they’re in heat or whenever slick is involved, being the natural sense enhancer and stimulator that it is. Dean heads down the aisle towards the finer imported fabrics section, figuring more thread count probably means softer material. Though Sam’s remark about slick-resistant sheets had been unwarranted, Dean can see the value in having sheets that don’t stain from slick or come so easily, so that’s another feature he’s looking for. He runs his fingers over the sample pieces of fabric, brow creased in concentration as he tries to decipher which material is softest. Eventually he decides that the navy blue, stain-resistant silk sheets are the best choice. They’re incredibly soft, are a nice color that Dean knows will complement Cas’ eyes, and are the right material to keep Cas warm without getting sticky from sweat. Dean tosses a few packages into the cart, figuring they’ll need a few spare sets when they need to be washed.

 

Comforters come next. This one is a little easier, only because he knows that he needs to go for the fluffiest, warmest comforter they have. He ends up picking out a puffy cream colored one filled with down feathers, advertised to be the best at keeping omegas warm during cold winter nights. Because he knows Cas can get pretty cold, especially after his heats, Dean also takes care to grab an assortment of different blankets, ranging from fleecy white ones to ultra-soft crimson velvet ones. He figures it’s always better to be on the safe side and get too many blankets than to realize they don’t have enough when Cas is shivering and cold with the power out during the winter like what happened last Christmas. Sam comes over to check on him and he shoos him away because he doesn’t need supervision. He’s focusing so intensely and his instincts are kicked into such high-gear that he’s hardly even aware of being sick, let alone about to keel over. All of his anxiety and dread has taken a back seat so that he can accomplish his mission. He’s got one hell of an important job to do and just this once, his body isn’t making it impossible for him to do it.

 

Choosing pillows comes with deep consideration. There are a ridiculous amount of choices and Dean has no idea where to begin. He tries to think back to what pillows from the guest room Cas had liked the best. If he remembers correctly, Cas had actually liked the pillows in his bed the most, which means he should go for the squishier down feather pillows instead of the firmer memory foam ones. Dean piles a shit ton of them into his cart, because in all of the articles he’d read, they’d all made a point to say that an excess of pillows is a good thing, allowing for the nest to be rearranged depending on a number of different circumstances. 

 

Dean spends a little too much time selecting the right humidifier, but it’s justified because there are way too many choices and he needs to get the one that will be best for Cas. One omega health book that had an article on nesting had explained why having a humidifier is so important -- apparently they greatly reduce the risk of omegas getting sick from viruses, which they are especially susceptible to after and during heats. They also promote respiratory health, as does the climate control fan Dean adds to his cart for improved air quality and circulation. Apparently it’s important to have good air circulation in a nest, something about ventilation and eliminating airborne bacteria. The exact science behind it isn’t as important to Dean as making sure he gets everything he needs to keep Cas healthy and prevent him from getting ill.

 

With the contents of the nest picked out, now comes the part Dean feels considerably more experienced with: the nest frame and structure. He loves building things and is pretty damn good at it, considering how he’s taken apart Baby and put her back together again numerous times. No ominous pictures of people who’d drastically fucked up with assembling an IKEA chair will daunt him into holding back; he’s confident he could tackle even the most intimidating ‘copious assembly required’ nest frame. It gives him a little boost in his step, knowing this is something he can actually do to illustrate his capabilities as a competent, dedicated mate through his ability to construct the perfect nest. Dean avoids the aisles with full bed frame kits and instead chooses a bunch of different pieces so that he can make his own frame exactly how he envisions it. He’d read that canopy beds are a must for nests, because they seal in the warmth, make the space smaller and more private, cozier, and more intimate. The right kind of canopy can narrow the world down to just the inside of the nest, blocking out everyone and everything else, and thus creates an incredibly intimate, almost sacred place for an alpha and omega to share with only each other. Dean had never read that in depth into nests before, but this element of them seems especially important and appeals to his instincts even more than any of the others. Soon enough he has all the individual pieces needed to construct a nest that matches the one he has in his head, the one that he knows will be perfect for him and his mate.

 

Well, that’s all _if_ some sort of miracle occurs and Cas will accept his courtship and become his mate. All of this rests on the slim hope Dean has that somehow he can fix things, that he can apologize to Cas and show him just how much he loves him and wants him and only him more than anything else in the world. Building the perfect nest is completely pointless if he doesn’t have Castiel to share it with. So Dean is going to build this nest holding onto the hope that he can show Cas just how much he is committed to and capable of being a worthy mate. But he can only do all of those things once he’s apologized to the omega, explained what happened and how he will never, ever hurt Cas like that again, and beg for his forgiveness and one more chance. 

 

***

 

“Dean!” Sam calls, his voice barely audible from all the way downstairs.  
“What!” Dean shouts back, eyebrows furrowing in concentration as he tightens a bolt on one of the support beams.  
“I made you a sandwich!” Sam yells, probably from the kitchen. “Come down and eat it and take your meds!” Dean sets the wrench down, sighing in exasperation as he scans the underside of the bed frame, making sure everything is secure and in order before he slides out from underneath it.  
“Just a minute!” Dean hollers after coming to the conclusion that not a sturdier nest frame has ever been built. He’s determined to finish constructing the base and frame in his room before he takes a break for dinner and more painkillers, and it looks like he’s nearly there, even though he should have taken a break to get more medicine two and a half hours ago. The pills the doctor had given him to hold off the withdrawal effects didn’t do that well in the first place, since nothing man made could ever lessen the effects of withdrawal, or even really hold them off for any period of time. But now that they’ve worn completely off, Dean’s realizing they weren’t in fact completely useless. Somehow, they’d given him enough energy to work harder than he’s ever worked on anything in his life, despite the fact that he is honest to God dying and that’s becoming increasingly more evident with every passing minute.

 

Dean climbs arduously to his feet, all the blood rushing out of his head and nearly making him pass out. His vision fills with black dots and blurs in and out like a camera that won’t focus, but he miraculously stays conscious and upright, the vertigo and nausea not winning out this time. The hellish fever heat continues to bake him from the inside out and his muscles are back to trembling so hard it’s difficult for him to hold the wrench as he surveys his handiwork. The mattress is held two feet off the ground by the nest frame and it fits perfectly inside, thanks to Dean’s meticulous calculations. The frame also creates a shallow wall around the perimeter of the bed, which Dean is going to line with sheets and blankets for cushioning. There won’t be any hard or rough edges once Dean has made up the nest, but so far, all he has accomplished is finishing the construction of its frame. The four bed posts at each corner extend almost up to the ceiling, supporting the thick white canopy that drapes over the top of the frame and over the edges, touching the floor on all sides so that it encloses the nest.

 

Finally satisfied with the completed nest frame, Dean heads towards the kitchen to get his meds and the sandwich Sam so thoughtfully made for him, probably with way too much lettuce, the rabbit food-eating bastard. He nearly falls down the stairs trying to get his shaky legs and weak muscles to cooperate and allow him to navigate the treacherous staircase. He makes it to the kitchen table, where Sam is reading something on his laptop and drinking tea, and his suspicions are confirmed: that sandwich is way more lettuce than it is anything else. It doesn’t matter though -- it’s the thought that counts, and Dean’ll probably throw up the contents of his stomach before he can even make it back up the stairs anyways because withdrawal is a bitch. Dean drops into the chair and reaches for the pills Sam laid out for him and his glass of water, thanking Sam for making lunch before he swallows the pills back in one go. His stomach clenches and nausea climbs into his throat at the thought of consuming anything right now, but he knows he needs to at least try and eat so he can have energy to finish making the nest. 

 

Dean dutifully takes a big bite of the sandwich and focuses on keeping his gag reflex in check while Sam angles his laptop so Dean can see the article on the screen. “So get this, it says here that traditionally nests have these canopy things to make the space more--” Dean waves him off, swallowing loudly before interrupting.  
“I already know about the nest canopies, did you forget I did a shit ton of research before we even went to all those stores looking for nest materials? C’mon, Sammy, I’m the one with withdrawal-induced memory loss, not you,” Dean teases, bracing himself for another bite of the sandwich. The faster he eats it, the faster he can be sick if he’s going to and then get back to building the nest. Sam snorts and rolls his eyes, turning his laptop back to face him.  
“Are you sure you don’t want me to give you a hand, even with some of the minor stuff? You look like you’re about to keel over.”  
“Thanks for pointing out that I look like shit and no, I don’t want your help. Only I’m allowed to make the nest, it’s a pretty non-negotiable part of the tradition -- courting alpha only, no little brothers allowed. I have to demonstrate _my_ capabilities and dedication as a mate, and you helping me would fuck up the authenticity or something,” Dean tips back the remains of his water, willing the sandwich and pills to stay in his stomach just this once so he won’t be wasting time he could be spending working on the nest bent over the toilet throwing up his guts. He pushes his chair back from the table and gets to his feet. The meds must already be kicking in -- he feels somewhat less dizzy than he did fifteen minutes ago. “Thanks for the sandwich, I don’t even know how you found that much lettuce in this house.” Sam shakes his head and chuckles.  
“I’ll come check on you again in a couple hours to make sure you didn’t die or anything,” he says, and Dean gives him a thumbs up without turning around as he makes his way back towards the stairs. 

 

He’s got a nest to finish.

***

 

Dean steps back and carefully examines every inch of the finished nest for any imperfections, anything he could improve or make better, or anything else he could change or add. He’ll probably never be one hundred percent content with it, considering he wants it beyond perfect for Cas. What he’s looking at now, however, has to be as close to perfect as Dean is humanly capable of getting. The nest is immaculate, the silk sheets stretched and fitted perfectly over the memory foam top mattress. He knows they are pristine even though he can’t see them beneath the thick cream comforter he’d carefully fluffed and neatly draped over them -- he’d checked at least fifty times. All of the blankets are folded and arranged neatly at the foot of the nest where they are easily accessible, while at the headboard, at least a dozen down-feather pillows are stacked exactly how Dean wants them. The shallow nest wall has been covered in velvety blankets and reinforced with more pillows so there isn’t even a chance in hell that any rough edges will ever come into contact with Cas when he’s inside. The canopy has been adjusted until it hangs evenly on all sides, just long enough to touch the floor, and it encloses the nest wonderfully, leaving no gaps for cold air or unwanted early morning sunlight to get in. There is a small space that allows for entry, revealed by drawing one section of the canopy back, and it’s expertly positioned so that entering and exiting the nest won’t be a hassle. Now that he’s successfully installed the humidifier and climate control air circulation fan in the window, there isn’t a single thing left for him to do to make this nest any more perfect for his True Mate. 

 

But it still isn’t complete.

 

This nest isn’t a _nest_ , not yet. Not until Cas is here sharing it with him. That’s the only way it will ever be truly complete, is if Cas is here for them to make it theirs, to make this nest his -- their -- home. 

 

Dean finishes tucking the wrench away into his toolbox and flips the latch before surveying the room one last time. He gazes at the nest and something in his chest _aches_. His entire being is burning up with fierce desire and longing for his True Mate, so intense it feels like it is devouring him from the inside out.

 

He needs to find Castiel and do whatever he can to fix things, and each minute he wastes not doing exactly that is just one more minute that Cas is out there, sick and dying, without Dean to care for and protect him, showing Cas how much he loves him more than the omega could ever fathom. It’s also one more minute that Cas is closer to _dying_. 

 

Dean’s startled out of his train of thought by Sam’s sudden loud knocking on his bedroom door. “Dean! You alive in there?” Sam calls, and Dean grumbles under his breath before turning the light off, opening the door, and stepping into the hallway. He’d just shout for Sam to come in, but now that this room holds his nest, Sam’s not allowed in here. It’s part of the tradition or whatever, more sacredness and symbolism Dean’s too exhausted to remember the exact meaning of. Dean’s moose of a brother has his jacket and shoes on, and is wearing his duffle bag slung over his shoulder. “I’m gonna head out soon to go pick up those meds. Is that okay?” Sam asks, adjusting the bag’s strap.  
“Yeah, that’s fine, I should be good. When’re you gonna be back again?” Dean asks, heading down the stairs with Sam hovering watchfully beside him.  
“Probably tomorrow night at the earliest. Since I have to go to some alternative metaphysical bond doctor over in Scottsdale, it’s gonna take me some time to drive over there and get your medicine. But if you need something or have an emergency, just call me and 911. Even if you don’t think it’s that bad, okay? Dr. Collins said you were getting into the pretty late stages of withdrawal, so even if you think it’s just a little dizziness, it might actually be a whole hell of a lot worse. So just call me if anything changes or you need something. I’ll keep my phone on me and charged the whole time.”  
“Yeah yeah, I got it, no need to lecture me, mom.” They reach the bottom of the stairs and Dean stumbles over to the couch, collapsing on top of it and turning the TV onto the news to distract himself from the fact that Sam is leaving for awhile and he’s going to be alone. Sam’s going on what is no doubt a dead end mission to get him some magical pills that are supposed to miraculously keep the withdrawal at bay, despite how nothing even an actual doctor gave him could do the trick. Withdrawal is fast, lethal, and unstoppable if you don’t reunite with your True Mate in time, but try telling that to Sam, who is hell bent on doing whatever he can to keep Dean alive for as long as possible, even if it means resorting to sketchy pills that have a very small chance of actually helping. 

 

Sam pulls a sour face and huffs. “I’m serious, Dean. If anything happens at all, call me. Don’t try to go anywhere or do anything -- I’m taking Baby, so you won’t be able to drive anywhere. If you need to go the hospital, call for an ambulance or call Charlie or someone to drive you if you don’t think it’s that much of an emergency.” The newscaster interrupts Sam and they both turn their attention to the TV.  
“A severe weather alert is being issued for the following areas.” A map on screen highlights the town they’re in now. “A strong storm is heading towards the east coast and severe weather procedures are expected to go into effect at ten o’ clock this evening. Major flooding and high winds at a rate of ninety miles per hour expected tonight and tomorrow, with a strong wind chill factor. People are being advised to stay inside their homes or to seek shelter if in the areas pictured in red. Driving is not advisable. Several major highways will be closed due to excessive flooding, and all activities that are outdoors or involve travel are highly discouraged. An electrical storm is headed...” The newscaster continues on but Dean tunes her out; he gets the gist. How typical of Maine, to have the worst fucking storm ever when it was actually forecasted to start warming up for the coming spring months.  
“You shouldn’t be driving in that,” Dean says, but Sam points to the map the newscaster is gesturing to.  
“I won’t be driving in it. I’ll be out of the red zone before the storm even hits, and I’ll be enough cities over that the storm won’t get near me and by the time I get back, it should be gone. I’ll be perfectly fine, and you will too, as long as you stay inside and don’t do anything stupid.” Sam counters. Dean rolls his eyes.  
“When have I ever done anything stupid?” Sam bitchfaces and shakes his head, grabbing the keys off the counter and unlocking the front door. “Drive safe, Sammy. Text me and let me know you made it there in one piece.”

 

“I will, and I’ll call you tomorrow and make sure you’re doing okay. And I mean it, Dean. Don’t do anything stupid.” Sam gives him a pointed look and then heads out into the rain, shutting the door soundly behind him. Dean sighs and redirects his attention back to the TV, looking at it without really watching it. The newscaster keeps speaking and the images keep changing, but none of it really registers in his brain -- his thoughts are back on Cas. His entire body feels like it is buzzing with jittery nerves and a surplus of energy, and the need to do something and expel all this pent-up energy caused from needing to be with Cas so damn bad is only getting worse the longer he sits here and thinks. The wind outside rattles the windows and he can hear rain pelting furiously against the glass. He finished the nest, and all that energy to do so has only transformed and grown into an all-consuming need to get to Cas and do whatever he can to fix things. He needs to see the omega, needs to talk to him, needs to hold him in his arms and tell him he’s sorry and that he loves him. Dean doesn’t deserve Cas, doesn’t deserve to have any of those things after how bad he fucked up, but every fiber of his being is demanding that he at least try. Not because he deserves it, but because _Cas_ deserves it. Cas deserves everything and Dean wants to give him the world, but all he did was hurt, invalidate, and drive the omega away.

 

_He has to fix things_. 

 

Sam’s warning repeats in his head. _Don’t do anything stupid._

 

The stupidest thing that Dean could possibly do right now is sit on his ass and do nothing when he needs his True Mate and most importantly, his True Mate needs him. 

 

Dean turns the TV off and grabs his jacket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again sorry this took me so long! Next chapter should be pretty intense, I hope you guys are ready! XD Thank you so so much for sticking with me and reading, leaving kudos and comments, it means the world, seriously, I can not tell you guys enough how much I am thankful for your support <3 You're all wonderful and I love you to pieces. 
> 
> If you're interested in some Christmas mini-fics, Astrophilla and I wrote a collection of them for our advent calendar and I suggest you go check them out if you're looking for some Christmas fluff, angst, smut, and hurt/comfort! :) 
> 
> Merry early Christmas lovelies! <3


	27. Against All Odds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by MiniCupcakeC! Bless your heart for enduring all of my shit <3

Castiel jolts violently awake to a deafening clap of thunder, drenched in a cold sweat and shivering where he lies entangled in the sheets of his makeshift bed. His heart is pounding in his chest and he feels inexplicably panicked, his breathing harsh and heavy as he blinks disorientedly in the dark, trying to get his eyes to adjust. Another roll of thunder sounds, reverberating in his bones, and he shivers hard as the sound of rain pummeling the roof and windows grows louder. Castiel feels _awful_. Jolts of pain strike through his head with vengeance, bright and jagged like the lightning that briefly illuminates the living room. Every muscle in his body aches and throbs, he’s freezing cold, and he knows without a doubt if he even attempts to sit up he is going to vomit, pass out, or both. _Meds_. He needs his meds -- the painkillers and over the counter fever medicine will at least take the edge off enough so that he can focus on more than just resisting the urge to throw up. 

Squeezing his eyes shut tight against the next flash of lightening, Castiel reaches down and blindly gropes for the bottle of pills, fingers fumbling before closing around the small container. His hands are shaking and his fingers are trembling so bad that it takes several tries to unscrew the cap, two of which result in him dropping the bottle and having to feel for it in the mess of blankets. His vision refuses to hold steady, tunneling in and out nauseatingly, and the darkness only makes locating the container even more difficult. He finally gets the cap off and upends the bottle in his palm, only for nothing to come out. Castiel exhales heavily, runs a palm over his clammy face. Right, he forgot to tell Balthazar he ran out of medicine, and now that he really, really needs it just so that he can remain coherent and focus on anything other than the pain and illness, he has none. Balthazar is sleeping, having just gotten home a couple hours ago from a very long day at work, and the last thing Castiel wants to do is wake him up and tell him he needs a refill ASAP. 

Balthazar had already been going out of his way to help Castiel after he got home from work, had spent nearly the entirety of the evening doing so in between making business calls and reading over paperwork. Management has already been overworking the alpha as it is, and trying to deal with a very sick and useless Castiel definitely only made things even harder for him. How many times has Balthazar given up a good night’s rest because Castiel threw up before he got to a trashcan or bathroom or needed help with something? Between work and helping Castiel clean up the messes he makes or get the medicine he needs, Balthazar hasn’t gotten any more than three hours of sleep at a time. This is the first night in awhile where he actually has the opportunity to sleep a good eight hours before work, and Castiel is not going to go wake him up and take that away from him. He’s tired of burdening Balthazar with all of his problems and feels awful that he demands so much and has nothing to give in return. The very least he owes Balthazar is just this one night of undisturbed rest.

There has to be some Ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet behind the sink in the bathroom, or some sort of pain killer that will tide Castiel over long enough for him to drive to the drugstore. He’s almost sure of it; Balthazar always keeps a bottle in there for when he is hungover or has one of his work-induced migraines. It’s definitely not powerful enough to compensate for the meds he needs, but it should be -- has to be -- enough to subdue the pain, fever, and dizziness to the point where he is able to drive a car for fifteen minutes or so.

Castiel’s entire body aches in protest of the idea. Even sitting up and stumbling to the bathroom seems like a monumental, impossible task because he is so weak and sick. All the strength has been sapped out of his body and his muscles don’t want to obey when he tries to sit up, gritting his teeth and shutting his eyes tight against the onslaught of vertigo and pounding pain in his head. The longer he lays here the worse it’s going to be; the faster he gets up and gets to the drugstore, the faster he can get the medicine. Time for a different tactic. Castiel swings his legs out of the pullout bed and plants them on the floor, sucks in a deep breath to hold in his lungs, and then rolls out of bed and onto his feet. As soon as he’s upright, his vision tunnels wildly, black sucking him quickly toward unconsciousness as he fights the urge to vomit and collapse. The pain in his head ratchets up tenfold and he nearly cries out, resisting with all he has the pull towards unconsciousness. He grabs hold of the couch to stabilize himself, willing his legs to stop trembling and support him while his sense of equilibrium sharpens.

It feels _awful_. He feels too weak and his head hurts too much, but somehow he is still standing upright and his knees haven’t buckled and he hasn’t blacked out from the pain or the rush of blood out of his head. Despite the fact he is wearing two pairs of sweatpants, thick wool socks, and a hoodie over another hoodie, Castiel is absolutely freezing. He shivers convulsively while willing his legs to remain steady despite the tremors rocking through them. The bathroom. He just needs to make it to the bathroom, then he’ll have the help of Ibuprofen to get him to work some kind of miracle and drive to the drugstore. He almost wants to laugh at how ridiculously impossible operating a vehicle sounds right now, given that he is hardly able to remain standing and conscious in his current state. Steeling himself, Castiel takes one stagger step forward, releasing his steadying grip on the couch and praying to whatever god will listen that his legs don’t give out. If he falls now, he knows he isn’t going to be able to get back on his feet again, so he just can’t fall. 

It’s definitely easier said than done.

Castiel clutches onto the backs of furniture and leans against the hallway walls to help him make his journey to the bathroom. Bile climbs up the back of his throat and his stomach pitches with each step forward, and that’s nothing compared to the jackhammering pain crashing in his head, warring with the vertigo about what will be the thing that pulls him under. He keeps bumping into corners and things that his eyes are too blurry to make out in the dark, and when his shin slams into the bathroom door hinge, he chokes out a sigh of relief for having made it this far. Pushing past the door and into the bathroom, Castiel lurches over to the sink, where he doubles over, supporting himself by leaning on the countertop, and just tries to breathe. His head swims and the temptation to fall to his knees and throw up into the finally in-reach toilet is strong, but he resists. The bottle of Ibuprofen is blessedly full and in reach, and he shakily twists off the cap and dumps a handful of the pills into his palm, not even caring when several of them miss his hand and go skittering across the bathroom floor. Castiel swallows back three of the pills dry, coughing weakly as they scrape their way down. 

Now he needs to get Balthazar’s keys and make it outside to the car. Like getting to the bathroom, it sounds impossible, but he did make it this far. The painkillers will kick in soon and then he can drag himself into the kitchen where he last saw the keys. As long as he doesn’t think about just how impossible that task seems, it should be doable. His brain is all static anyways; it’s not like he has much room to think about how daunting everything is right now. 

When the Ibuprofen starts to work, it makes him feel oddly disconnected from his body, blurring out the pain, coldness, and his sensitivity to touch. He can feel the pills burning a hole in his stomach lining, so that has to mean they’re working, right? His focus is getting more dubious as he makes his way to the kitchen and snags the keys lying on the counter, but the medicine is blocking out some of the pain, dizziness, and nausea, so that’s better than nothing he supposes. It’s just enough that he can focus on walking from the counter to the front door, the car keys clenched in his shaking fist a victory if he’s ever had one. His head is clearing up in tiny increments and the pain and discomfort is becoming more distant with each passing minute, which gives Castiel just enough will and motivation to wrench the front door out of way after forcing the doorknob to unlock and turn with quivering fingers. Now all that stands between him and the car is just a gravel pathway that leads across the lawn out to the street.

Well, that and the storm that is apparently raging on like no storm he’s ever witnessed before. The sharp press of gravel under Castiel’s socked feet quickly fades into the background as the full intensity of the storm really registers now that he is limping out to the car in it. If he was freezing before, he feels downright hypothermic now, the cold northern wind paired with the absolute down pour of icy rain stealing every last ounce of body heat he has left. It takes just seconds for the rain to completely soak through all of his layers, leaving him feeling hundreds of pounds heavier and making it that much harder to stagger to the car. The wind makes his eyes stream tears, harsh and relentless as it drives the rain sideways at his exposed face, making his cheeks sting and quickly start to go numb. Thunder booms overhead, so loud that Castiel can feel it trembling in his bones, and lightning spears the pitch-black sky, the only light present from the moon’s glow suffocated by rain-swollen clouds.

Castiel has decided that Hell is not hot and full of flames and smoke. This is Hell, what he’s currently walking through right now. He’s shaking violently from the cold, his progress agonizingly slow when the wind makes moving forward so incredibly difficult. The wind is stealing the breath from his lungs and he can hardly see between his already blurry vision and the tears streaming from his eyes. Every part of him aches to collapse right here in the gravel, to curl into a ball and try to protect himself from the brutality of the elements. He feels nothing and everything all at once, his body buffeted between the numbness caused by cold and the painkillers, and the painful symptoms of the sickness. Combined with the impossible challenge of making it to the car, the effects of whatever is plaguing him seem overwhelmingly like _too much_. 

It feels like an eternity later that Castiel collapses against the driver’s side of Balthazar’s Prius, gasping in shallow lungfuls of air and blinking hard against the torrential rain spitting into his face. He fumbles to unlock the door and then drags himself inside as fast as he can to escape the biting wind and freezing rain. He just manages to slam the door closed behind him before he slumps in the driver’s seat and fights the dizzy lightheadedness urging him towards unconsciousness. His vision pulls in and out of focus as he sits there shuddering convulsively, fingers numb from cold and still trembling enough that it takes several tries for him to jam the key into the ignition and twist. The engine roars to life and Castiel reaches to crank the heat up to full, though he’s sure it won’t even make a dent in his condition. Rain pounds angrily on the roof of the car and pelts the windshield, so much that it’s hard to see ten feet in front of the car even with the windshield wipers on high. 

If Castiel was in a more coherent, rational state of mind, he wouldn’t dare drive in this state, let alone in this hurricane-caliber weather. But he’s not, and the only way things are going to get any better for him is if he gets to the drugstore and finds that medicine he so desperately needs. So that’s why, against his better judgement, the forces of nature, and the will of his own body, Castiel puts the car into gear and accelerates away from the curb. 

Castiel doesn’t pass a single car as he gets onto one of the main roads, which is more than a little ominous. He can feel the force of the wind making the car rock, see and hear water spray up from the tires like he’s driving through a flood. The windshield wipers beat an anxious staccato, unable to clear the rain away as fast as it comes, and Castiel squints to make out the turns in the road, not that he’s even completely sure he’s _on_ the road. He can’t see the white or yellow lines, can’t see any signs; there’s only the thick gleam of rain in the yellow beam of the headlights. Thunder roars directly overhead, as if warning Castiel away from heading deeper into the night, into the storm. His heart slams an urgent rhythm in his chest, pulse throbbing in his temples and blood rushing in his ears, and Castiel bleakly notes that it’s the sound of a dying engine if he’s ever heard one.

Castiel doesn’t know why he must keep going, but it feels like he’s standing on the knife edge of something _important_ in a way that he can’t even grasp.

So he forces the car’s engine faster, racing it against that of his labored heart.

***

Dean is running.

Right fucking down the middle of the street. Yes he knows it’s a bad idea and yes he knows it’s dangerous, but since he hasn’t seen a car for the past half hour that he’s been out here, this is probably one of the _least_ crazy things that he’s doing. 

His lungs feels like they’re going to burst. 

Considering that a couple little white pills are the only thing keeping him upright, conscious, and out of the hospital he should no doubt be in, sprinting through the worst storm he’s ever seen is more than a little fucking insane. So what if it’s insane, Dean doesn’t fucking care, the _only_ thing he cares about is Cas. His omega, he needs to get to his omega, and there is not a single force of nature or anything else that is going to stop him. Sammy took his car -- fine. He’s sick and dying from withdrawal -- alright, sure. There’s a storm viscous enough that it’s upending trees and flooding homes and entire streets -- bring it on. Dean is prepared to move both Heaven and Hell if that’s what it takes to get to his True Mate. 

Every fiber of his being aches for Castiel; every instinct, every thought, every emotion demanding he go to his omega and never leave him again. His desperate need to wrap Cas in his arms, to scent him and hold him close, to explain himself and apologize and do whatever he can to fix things is all-consuming and gives him energy to keep running. Dean isn’t a poet and metaphors are bullshit, but he can’t help but notice the symbolism here -- he’s finally running _toward_ his True Mate and this desperate need to cement the soul-deep bond they share instead of running away. He’s done running away. Maybe it’s just his delirious brain that’s scrambled from painkillers and withdrawal, but the significance in this running-reversal is staring him in the face, and he will be damned if he doesn’t acknowledge it for what it is.

Dean can’t see for shit out here. The streetlights are out, the moon has fucked off behind the clouds, and all Dean has to see by is the flashlight feature on his phone. It’s pretty much entirely useless, considering the rain is coming down so thickly he can’t see a foot from his nose, but somehow he knows he’s on the right street. Call it intuition or just dumb luck, but Dean feels it in his gut that he’s heading straight for his omega. It has to be fucking cold out here -- Dean can see a puff of his breath in the air with each exhale -- but he only feels fever-hot, burning up from the inside out. It feels like there’s soup in his lungs between the heat and humidity, and his body is so heavy his bones feel made of lead, but that’s nothing compared to the sickening pounding at the inside of his skull. If he stops running even for a second he knows he’s going to vomit, and the dizziness that he’s barely keeping at bay will undoubtedly take over. But that’s not why he vehemently refuses to stop for any reason. Dean hasn’t reached his True Mate yet, and he _absolutely will not stop_ until he has the omega safe in his arms.

Dean’s instincts, his thoughts, his feelings -- everything is _CasCasCas_. He’s going nearly crazy with not only with the overwhelming desire to be with his True Mate, but with gut-wrenching _worry_. There’s nothing much Dean can really do if Cas refuses to hear him out or come see the nest -- since he doesn’t deserve any more of Cas’ time after what he’s done, his hands are tied. But there’s not a chance in hell that Dean won’t do everything in his power to help the withdrawal-stricken omega. Even if Cas doesn’t want to see Dean or be around him -- the thought sends self-loathing and raw pain tightening like iron fetters around his heart, even though he knows he deserves that, and worse -- Dean will at least drive him to the hospital. He’s not sure what they will be able to do, but if it’s the only way Dean is able to help, then he will do it at whatever cost. Just imagining how Cas must be feeling right now makes Dean sick to his stomach with fear and the need to take care of the omega and do whatever he can to ease his pain. Concern floods his mind, coloring every thought he has with worry and more self hatred because all of this is his fault. Cas’ suffering is on his shoulders; the withdrawal, how he invalidated, hurt, and drove the omega away -- it’s all because he was an arrogant, selfish asshole and monumentally fucked up. He fucked up in the worst possible way, and --

Dean is suddenly blinded by the pair of high beams that come whipping around the corner. He’s so lost in thought that the car takes him completely off guard, the hum of the engine just now registering above the roar of the wind only now that he sees the oncoming vehicle barreling towards him. Dean has time to process that it’s a Prius, that it’s going to hit him in .02 seconds, to think _I’m going to haunt the driver for eternity if it’s a goddamn Prius that offs me_ , and that’s all before his self preservation instincts kick in and he dives out of the way. The screech of wet brakes and the skid of tires locking and hydroplaning in the floodwater cuts audibly through the storm. Dean hardly notices -- he’s too busy falling to his hands and knees on the side of the road, having just narrowly avoided getting hit head on. His body aches and throbs in protest of the impact and he coughs violently, disoriented and in pain, but thankfully still conscious. Everything is white noise for a second as he struggles to get a grip on himself, thoughts reeling as they try to catch up with what just happened.

There’s the sound of a car door opening. Then, “ _Dean?_ ”

Dean’s entire world gravitates around that voice, has since the day he first heard it in a situation bizarrely, poetically parallel to this one. 

_Castiel_. 

He can’t fucking believe it. His heart lurches into his throat and jackhammers away while his brain flatlines, because Cas is jogging towards him and for a moment all Dean can do is drown in those baby blues like a man who’s been lost in the desert for years. Everything Dean has ever wanted is miraculously right here, and his soul acknowledges the presence of its True Mate with a profound wave of some emotion Dean can’t even name -- something overjoyed, something pure, something intimate and sacred and _overwhelming_. 

Castiel is now close enough that Dean can pick up his scent -- a scent Dean could pick out in a crowd of hundreds -- and the first inhale is what shocks Dean’s brain back up to speed. Everything but the man now standing right in front of him is blown clear out of his mind. Dean sucks in a deep breath of the omega’s honey and cloves scent and he wants to fucking cry, that scent is like coming home, it’s more ambrosial than his memory could ever have hoped to capture. A thousand memories rush through Dean’s head, all of them triggered by the scent of his True Mate. Dean wants to throw himself on Cas and scent him for hours, scent mark his omega until Dean’s scent on him is unmistakable and not even a trace of Balthazar’s remains, but he can’t.

He can’t wrap Cas’ small frame -- which is worryingly thinner than when Dean last saw him -- up tight in his arms, pull the omega to his chest and hold him in their nest, in the car, right here, it doesn’t matter as long as he has Cas close. Dean’s brain is running a mile a minute, processing every little detail about Cas -- refreshing himself on the familiar and taking careful note of everything new. The changes stick out to him the most, and each one has him feeling increasingly sick to his stomach. The withdrawal has _ravaged_ Cas. Even beneath all his soaked-through layers, Dean can see how much weight he has lost in the more pronounced sharpness of his cheekbones and in the way his clothes hang off him, now loose and baggy. The hollow circles under Cas’ eyes look especially dark against his unnaturally pale complexion, his cheeks and lips lacking their normal flushed coloring, and Dean’s heart contracts with concern, his stomach pitching.   
Dean’s True Mate is shaking and shivering, the chattering of his teeth painfully audible, and Dean wants to throttle himself for being the cause of all this. This is all his fault and he feels a bitter, burning hatred for himself because of what he did to Cas and because he wasn’t there to provide for and protect him. Not only was he not taking care of his omega, making sure his stomach is always full, that he’s always comfortable, warm, and completely healthy, but he was the cause of the withdrawal that did this to him. Dean needs to fix things and help the omega more than he needs the air in his damned lungs. He needs to apologize and explain himself, and then do whatever he can to help restore Cas’ health. He wants to take care of Cas, wants to cook for the omega and make sure he drinks plenty of water to get his strength back up, wants to keep him resting in bed so he can heal, wants to ensure Cas gets as much sleep as possible, and so much more. But since Dean fucked up and has no right to take care of Cas as a _mate_ would, Dean will have to make do with taking Cas to the hospital so that he can receive the care he desperately needs, even if it isn’t Dean that will be nursing him back to health. His alpha instincts recoil at the idea, repulsed by the thought of letting strangers around Cas when he is in such a weakened, vulnerable state while failing to provide for him as his alpha.

Most pressing is Dean’s desire to immediately go to Cas and hold him, get him out of the rain and somewhere safe. He wants to kiss the warmth back into Cas’ lips, wants to curl himself around the omega’s fragile body and take his time committing every detail of him back to memory. But he can’t. What he _can_ do, though, he is going to do right fucking now. 

“Are you okay? What are you doing out here?” Cas asks, eyebrows drawn together in concern and confusion. Dean sucks in a deep breath and steels himself -- This is the only chance he is going to get and he is _ready_.  
“I’m fine, and Sam took my car so the reason I’m out here running through a storm like I’ve got a death wish is because I had to talk to you.” Castiel starts in surprise and Dean can smell the shock that sharpens the omega’s scent. There’s also pain there in Cas’ scent, thick, dark, and pulling at something at Dean’s very core. Cas says nothing, probably at a loss for words, but his eyes are full of questions. The tightness of his jaw shows he is guarded and cautious, though; he won’t ask because he doesn’t want to get hurt anymore than Dean already hurt him. The realization is painful as hell, but not enough for Dean to stop now.   
“I was so fucking wrong, Cas.” Dean exhales shakily and his insides burn, but his voice is strong. He won’t look away from Castiel’s ocean eyes. “I hate myself for shutting you out and refusing to listen when you tried to tell me we were True Mates. I invalidated you and I was selfish and ignorant and a total fucking asshole. I should never have made you feel like shit or not given you the attention and consideration you deserve when you were discussing your feelings with me.” Dean’s throat gets tight with emotion and his face feels even hotter with unshed tears. “I was so, so fucking wrong, Cas. I should have listened, I should have believed you. I-I love you, so fucking much, and I will never be able to make up for what I did to you.”

Dean can’t stop, not now. Now that he has started, every unfiltered feeling and thought is pouring out, fueled by pent-up regret, self-loathing, and remorse. “It shouldn’t have taken fucking _withdrawal_ and some metaphysical bond specialist for me to believe you. You were right, Cas, we’re True Mates, and I don’t even have the capacity to explain how much that means to me, how honored I am to be your True Mate.” Cas mouth falls open in shock and he smells like so many different feelings that Dean can’t even keep up with them.   
“Withdrawal? What--”  
“Withdrawal is why we’re so sick-- it’s what happens when a True Mate bond is left unfulfilled. It’s like when newly mated couples are separated, but since we are True Mates, we don’t even have to be mated in order for this kind of separation to make us feel like shit. Dr. Collins could explain it way better than me, he’s the specialist I saw. True Mate bonds are fucking _incredible_ , seriously, there’s so many things they can do!” Dean shakes his head, trying to get back on track -- what True Mate bonds can do doesn’t matter if his True Mate is still broken from what he did.

“We’re True Mates,” Castiel repeats softly, and it isn’t a prompt for clarification. It’s breathy and reverent, more like a prayer if Dean’s ever heard one.   
“Yeah, we are, and you knew all along but I didn’t listen. I shot you down. I never used to believe in True Mates. Dad always raised us looking down on romanticized mating bonds and told us they were fairy tales, and I never grew out of it. I got so bitter and skeptical about the whole thing, have been for years, and it only got worse the longer I was alone and realized I’ll never be able to have a mate because I’m so fucked up. It doesn’t excuse how I reacted and it definitely doesn’t excuse how I treated you, and that’s something I’m going to carry with me for the rest of my life. I’m so fucking sorry, Castiel, I should never have done that to you. Regardless of what I thought about True Mates, I should never have treated you the way that I did, and I’m just so fucking _sorry_.” Dean’s voice breaks on the last word and his eyes sting with the tears threatening to brim over his waterline.

Dean inhales deeply, his mind finally slowing down now that he’s breathlessly gotten everything in his head out. Well, not _everything_. There’s still a bit more, but it has to wait until later, if there is a later. His heart is pounding in his chest so hard he feels lightheaded, but he’s not going to pass out, not now. His eyes are still locked with Cas’, but the emotion behind the omega’s eyes is veiled so Dean can’t identify what it is. Cas’ scent is muddled by the sickness, so it’s nearly impossible for Dean to tell anything from it aside that Cas is thinking very hard. Dean’s not done, though. He still has one more thing for Castiel, one more thing and then the omega can kick him out of his life forever if that’s what he wants. He just has to make this one last gesture, so that there is no mistaking just how much Cas means to Dean, how much he loves him and would give anything to have Cas as his mate and to fulfill their bond.

Dean’s voice is so soft it nearly dissipates in the roar of the storm. “Please, Castiel, I know I don’t deserve any more of your time, but there’s something I really need to show you.” Dean swallows hard, his soul aching with each syllable, desperate to do this one last thing for his True Mate. “Please, can I show you?”

Their eyes burn into each other’s for a moment longer before Castiel nods his head yes and gets back into the car, leaving the passenger side door open for Dean.

***

Castiel is feeling a thousand different things as he walks through the doorway and into Dean’s house, something he never thought he would do again. His head spins with the abundance of feelings brought on from his reunion with Dean: hope, shock, caution, confusion, _love_. Dean’s confessions, explanations, and apologies turn over and over in his mind, his reaction to them visceral and made even more complex by the instincts warring inside him now. There’s so much for him to process, to understand, but all Castiel can really focus on is Dean himself, right here, right now. The alpha shuts the front door behind them and leads Castiel up the stairs, his scent stormy with determination and unbearably sweet beneath that, still without a doubt the most beautiful, captivating thing Castiel has ever inhaled. The determination and importance of whatever Dean is about to do is evident in every line of his body, from the strong set of his shoulders to the straightness of his back as he stops outside the closed door of Dean’s bedroom. Castiel’s focus narrows down to Dean and this moment alone, pushing all thoughts of processing and evaluating out of his head. Whatever is about to happen is important, and Dean has his full attention. The alpha turns to face him, his eyes finding Castiel’s, and his gaze is full of mesmerizing intensity and devotion that steals the breath out of his lungs. Without breaking eye contact, Dean twists the knob and pushes the door open, stepping aside so that Castiel can see into the room.

Dean’s room looks nothing like it did the last time Castiel was here.

The alpha’s bed has been replaced by an exquisite canopy bed unlike one Castiel has ever seen. It looks like some sort of work of art, like something you would find in a castle in ancient times, the ones depicted in archaic mating ritual tomes that Castiel reads for his studies. They don’t make bedframes like this, with shallow walls and thick, ornately carved bedposts to support the satiny canopy that is draped elegantly over the bed on all sides; Dean must have built this from the ground up. A section of the canopy is drawn back to reveal the interior, and Castiel swears he has never seen anything more luxurious and inviting in his life. A fluffy down-feather comforter is tucked over the top of what look like dark blue silk sheets, and a collection of pillows of all shapes and sizes are arranged at the intricately carved headboard. The shallow walls of the bed are lined with matching dark blue velvet, all hard lines and rough edges sealed away. Recognition burns hot and enrapturing inside his chest. This isn’t just a bed.

Dean built him a nest. 

Even the rest of the room has been fashioned to complement the nest. A climate control air circulation fan has been installed to sit in the window opposite the door, and a humidifier rests on the dresser pushed up against the west wall. Folded blankets are stacked neatly at the foot of the bed where they can be easily accessed. Every single detail tells of how much thought, time, and effort was put into this nest, how Dean made it especially with Castiel in mind, taking every one of his needs, wants, and preferences into consideration. Castiel is _floored_. This is a nest that rivals those kings would build for their mates, and while that in of itself is stunning, Castiel is even more struck by the fact that Dean made this for _him_. Dean made this nest for them to share and the significance of it fills Castiel with euphoric, deep-burning warmth. Dean wanted to prove how much he is dedicated to being Castiel’s mate, wanted to show Castiel how much he wants him and loves him and can be a good mate for him. The alpha turned to the oldest, most sacred and intimate mating ritual of all time in order to show Castiel just how much he loves him and desires to take him as his mate. 

Castiel turns to Dean, awed and overwhelmed in the best way. There are tears in his eyes, he is so overcome with emotion. Dean loves him and he loves Dean, never stopped loving him, and it’s a love they share that endures above all else and perseveres in spite of every challenge they’ve faced. One look at Dean’s tear-streaked face and Castiel knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Dean loves him and wants to cement their bond as True Mates more than anything in the world. Dean meets his eyes and Castiel couldn’t look away even if he wanted to. “I love you, Castiel. You’re all I’ve ever wanted, even when I didn’t recognize it, and you will always be all I ever want.” Dean gives him a soft, adoring smile, like Castiel is the only thing in the world worth looking at. “You’re -- you mean more to me than I can explain. You’re… _everything_ to me, and I can’t promise I won’t ever fuck up again or make some dumbass mistake, but I _can_ promise I will always treasure and protect you if we finalize our bond. I know I don’t deserve you and that I have let you down, but if you are willing to give me one more chance and you want me too, then I would be honored to share this nest with you as mates. True Mates.” Dean’s lips pull up in a tender, crooked smile and Castiel’s heart feels like it has burst in his chest. He blinks back tears, cups Dean’s face in his hands, and kisses him with everything he has. 

Dean wraps his arms around Castiel’s waist and kisses him back, gentle yet fervent, kissing him like Castiel is the most precious thing in existence. The world melts away and Castiel loses himself in Dean, committing the taste, scent, and touch of his alpha to memory once again. His scent is heady and glorious, like the sun after a storm, fragrant pine and worn leather so indescribably _Dean_ , and it fills all the empty spaces inside Castiel with _home_ and _mate_. Castiel pulls back and finds Dean’s forest green eyes. “I love you, Dean, I forgive you, and I want you, too. I want to be your mate.” The declaration burns with sincerity and surety, and Castiel has never said anything more true or right in his life; it’s _exulting_. Dean gives him a blinding, teary smile and then pulls Castiel close, burying his face in his shoulder. Castiel closes his eyes and revels in what it feels like to finally be back in the arms of the man he loves, reunited with his True Mate and right where he belongs. 

There are no more empty spaces in Castiel. The void is gone. He has Dean and Dean has him, and now they can finally be _whole_.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's fucking back from the dead!!! :D
> 
> I can't apologize enough for the three month delay... life has been insane and I only just managed to squeeze this chapter in during spring break! Thank you so so much for your patience and for your support, I love you guys from the bottom of my heart <3 
> 
> Also the 'Headlights and Halos' award for longest chapter goes to this one :') I'm not even sorry, Dean and Cas had a lot of catching up to do this chapter, and who am I to limit them ;D
> 
> Thanks for reading, commenting, leaving kudos, bookmarking, and most importantly, sticking with me through everything <3


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